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CHRISTIAN’S MISTAKE 


BY 

THE AUTHOR OF 

“JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN,” 

(be. &c. 




‘‘In. the awful mystery of human life, it is a consolation sometimes to believe that 
on/mistakes, perhaps even our sins, are permitted t'' be instruments of our education 
'for immortality."— Anon. 





HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 


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“JOHN AND LUCY.” 



CHRISTIAN’S MISTAKE. 


CHAPTER I. 

So I will do my best a gude wife to be, 

For Auld Robin Gray is vera kind to me.” 

“I THINK this will do, my dear; just listen;” and, in 
a mysterious half whisper, good Mrs. Ferguson, wife of 
James Ferguson, the well-to-do silversmith and jeweler, 
of High Street, Avonsbridge, read aloud from the sheet 
of paper in her hand: 

‘‘ ‘ On the 21st instant, at the University Church, Av¬ 
onsbridge, by the Eeverend John Smith, the Reverend 
Arnold Grey, DD., Master of Saint Bede’s College, Avons^ 
bridge, to Christian, only child of the late Edward Oak¬ 
ley, Esq., of that place.’ Will it do? Because, if so, 
James will send it to ‘ The Times’ at once.” 

“ Better ask Dr. Grey first,” answered the bride. 

As she spoke. Dr. Grey turned round from the window 
where he had been conversing — that is, responding to 
conversation—with Mr. Ferguson, chiefly on the weath¬ 
er; for it was a snowy December day. 



6 


Christianas Mistake. 


This precise moment, half an hour after his marriage— 
his second marriage—is hardly a fair time to describe 
Dr. Arnold Grey; suffice it to say that he was a gentle¬ 
man apparently about forty-five, rather low in stature, 
and spare in figure, with hair already thin and iron-gray. 
The twenty-five years between him and his newly-mar¬ 
ried wife showed plainly—only too plainly—as she stood, 
in all her gracefulness of girlhood, which even her ex¬ 
treme pallor and a certain sharp, worn, unnaturally com¬ 
posed look could not destroy. He seemed struck by 
this. His face clouded over for a minute, and he slightly 
sighed. But the pain, whatever it was, was only moment¬ 
ary. He looked like a man who was not in the habit of 
acting hastily or impulsively—who never did any thing 
without having previously fully counted the cost. 

“ What were you saying, Mrs. Ferguson ?” said he, ad¬ 
dressing her with the grave and somewhat formal polite¬ 
ness which was his natural manner, but which always 
somewhat awed that rather vulgar, though kind-hearted 
and well-meaning woman. 

She put the paper into his hands. “ It’s the notice for 
‘ The TimesJames and I made it up last night. James 
thought it would save you trouble, master—” Mrs. Fer¬ 
guson always hesitated between this common University 
custom of address and plain “Dr. Gre^^” 

“Thank you ; Mr. Ferguson is always kind,” returned 
the Master of Saint Bede’s. 

“ You see,” continued Mrs. Ferguson, lowering her tone 
to a confidential whisper, “ I thought it was better only to 
put ‘Edward Oakley, Esq.,’and nothing more. Wouldn’t 
you like it to be so, sir?” 


Christianas Mistali^e. 


1 


“ I should like it to be exactly as—” he paused, and 
the color rushed violently over his thin, worn, and yet 
sensitive face, as sensitive as if he had been a young man 
still—“exactly as Mrs. Grey pleases.” 

Mrs, Grey / At the sound of her new name Christian 
started, and she, too, turned scarlet. Not the sweet, rosy 
blush of a bride, but the dark red flush of sharp physical 
or mental pain, which all her self-control could not hide. 

“ Poor dear! poor dear! this is a great change for her, 
and only a year since her father died,” said Mrs. Fergu¬ 
son, still in that mysterious, apologetic whisper. “ But 
indeed, my love, you have done quite right in marrying; 
and don’t fret a bit about it. Never mind her, sir; she’ll 
be better by-and-by.” 

This oppression of pity would have nerved any one of 
reserved temperament to die rather than betray the least 
fragment of emotion more. Christian gathered herself 
up; her face grew pale again, and her voice steady. She 
looked, not at Mrs. Ferguson, but at the good man who 
had just made her his wife—and any one looking at him 
must have felt that he was a good man—then said, gen¬ 
tly, but determinedly, 

“ If Br. Grey has no objection, I should like to have 
stated my father’s occupation or my own. I do not wish 
to hide or appear ashamed of either.” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Dr. Grey; and, taking up the 
pen, he added, “ Edward Oakley, Esq., late organist of 
Saint Bede’s.” It was the last earthly memento of one 
who, born a gentleman and a genius, had so lived, that, 
as all Avonsbridge well knew, the greatest blessing which 
could have happened to his daughter was his death. But, 


8 


Christianas Mistake. 


as bj some strange and merciful law of compensation 
often occurs, Christian, inheriting mind and person from 
him, had inherited temperament, disposition, character 
from the lowlj-born mother, who was every thing that 
he was not, and who had lived just long enough to stamp 
on the girl of thirteen a moral impress which could re¬ 
sist all after contamination, and to leave behind a lovely 
dream of motherhood that might, perhaps—God knows! 
—have been diviner than the reality. 

These things Dr. Grey, brought accidentally into con¬ 
tact with Christian Oakley on business matters after her 
father’s lamentable death, speedily discovered for him¬ 
self; and the result was one of those sudden resolves 
which in some men spring from mere passion, in others 
from an instinct so deep and true that they are not to be 
judged by ordinary rules. People call it “love at first 
sight,” and sometimes tell wonderful stories of how a 
man sees, quite unexpectedly, some sweet, strange, and 
yet mysteriously familiar face, which takes possession of 
his fancy with an almost supernatural force. He says to 
himself, “That woman shall be my wife;” and some day, 
months or years after, he actually marries her; even as, 
within a twelvemonth, having waited silently until she 
was twenty-one. Dr. Grey married Christian Oakley. 

But until within a few weeks ago she herself had had 
no idea of the kind. She intensely respected him ; her 
gratitude for his fatherly care and kindness was almost 
boundless; but marrying him, or marrying at all, was 
quite foreign to her thoughts. How things had come 
about even yet she could hardly remember or compre¬ 
hend. All was a perfect dream. It seemed another per- 


ChristiaTi's Mistake, 


9 


son, and not she, who was suddenly changed from Mrs. 
Ferguson’s poor governess, without a friend or relative 
in the wide world, to the wife of the Master of Saint 
Bede’s. 

That she could have married, or been thought to have 
married him, for aught but his own good and generous 
self, or that the mastership of Saint Bede’s, his easy in¬ 
come, and his high reputation had any thing at all to do 
with it, never once crossed her imagination. She was 
so simple; her forlorn, shut-up, unhappy life had kept 
her, if wildly romantic, so intensely, childishly true, that, 
whatever objections she had to Dr. Grey’s offer, the idea 
that this could form one of them—that any one could 
suspect her—7ier, Christian Oakley—of marrying for 
money or for a home, did not occur to her for an instant. 
He saw that, this lover, who, from his many years of 
seniority, and the experience of a somewhat hard life, 
looked right down into the depths of the girl’s perplex¬ 
ed, troubled, passionate, innocent heart, and he was not 
afraid. Though she told him quite plainly that she felt 
for him not love, but only affection and gratitude, he had 
simply said, with his own tender smile, “ Never mind—I 
love youf and married her. 

As she stood in her white dress, white shawl, white 
bonnet—all as plain as possible, but still pure bridal 
white, contrasting strongly with the glaring colors of 
that drawing-room over the shop, which poor Mrs. Fer¬ 
guson had done her luckless best to make as fine as 
possible, her tall, slender figure, harmonious movements 
and tones, being only more noticeable by the presence 
of that stout, gaudily-dressed, and loud-speaking woman, 
A 2 


10 


Christia^i's Mistake. 


most people would have said that, though he had mar¬ 
ried a governess, a solitary, unprotected woman, with nei¬ 
ther kith nor kin to give her dignity, earning her own 
bread by her own honest labor, the Master of Saint 
Bede’s was not exactly a man to be pitied. 

He rose, and, having silently shown the paper to Chris¬ 
tian, inclosed it in an envelope, and gave it to Mr. Fer¬ 
guson. 

> “Will you take the trouble of forwarding this to 
‘The Times,’ the latest of all your many kindnesses?” 
said he, with that manner, innately a gentleman’s, which 
makes the acknowledging of a favor appear like., the 
conferring of one. Worthy James Ferguson took it as 
such; but he was a person of deeds, not words; and he 
never could quite overcome the awe with which, as an 
Avonsbridge person, he, the jeweler of High Street, re¬ 
garded the Master of Saint Bede’s. 

Meanwhile the snow, which had been falling all day, 
fell thicker and thicker, so that the hazy light of the 
drawing-room darkened into absolute gloom. 

“Don’t you think the children should be here?” said 
Mrs. Ferguson, pausing in her assiduous administration 
of cake and wine. “ That is^—I’m sure I beg your par¬ 
don, master—if they are really coming.” 

“I desired my sisters to send them without fail,” 
quietly replied the master. 

But another half hour dragged heavily on ; the bride¬ 
groom’s carriage, which was to take them across country 
to a quiet railway station, already stood at the door, 
when another carriage was heard to drive up to it. 

. “ There they are!” cried Mrs. Ferguson; and the 


Christiaii's Mistake. 


n 


bride, who had been sitting beside her on the sofa, pas¬ 
sive, silent, all but motionless, started a little. 

“ Oh, I am so glad !” she said, in the first natural tone 
that had been heard in her voice all day. “I did so 
want to see the children.” 

Dr. Grey went out of the room at once, and Mrs. Fer¬ 
guson had the good sense to follow, taking her husband 
with her. “ For,” as she said afterward, “ the first sight 
of three step-children, and she, poor dear, such a mere 
girl, must be a very unpleasant thing. For her part, she 
was thankful that when she married James Ferguson he 
was a bachelor, with not a soul belonging to him except 
an old aunt. She wouldn’t like to be in poor Mrs. 
Grey’s shoes—dear me, no!—with those two old ladies 
who have lived at the Lodge ever since the first Mrs. 
Grey died. She wondered how on earth Miss Oakley 
would manage them.” And upon James Ferguson’s 
suggesting “in the same way as she managed every 
body,” his wife soundly rated him for saying such a silly 
thing, though he had, with the usual acuteness of silent 
people, said a wiser thing than he was aware of. 

Meantime Christian was left alone, for the first time 
that day, and many days; for solitude was a blessing 
not easy to get in the Fergusons’ large, bustling famil}:. 
Perhaps she did not seek it—perhaps she dared not. 
Anyhow, during the month that had been occupied with 
her marriage preparations, she had scarcely been ten 
minutes alone, not even at night, for two children shared 
her room—the loving little things whom she had taught 
for two years, first as daily, and then as resident govern, 
ess, and to whom she had persisted in-giving lessons till 
the last. 


12 


Christia7i's Mistake. 


She stood with the same fixed composedness—not 
composure—of manner; the quietness of a person who, 
having certain things to go through, goes through them 
in a sort of dream, almost without recognizing her own 
identity. Women, more than men, are subject to this 
strange, somnambulistic, mental condition, the result of 
strong emotion, in which they both do and endure to an 
extent that men would never think of or find possible. 

After a minute she moved slightly, took up and laid 
down a book, but still mechanically, as if she did not 
quite know what she was doing, until, suddenly, she 
caught sight of her wedding ring. She regarded it with 
something very like affright, tried convulsively to pull 
it ofi*; but it was rather tight; and before it had passed 
a finger-joint, she had recollected herself, and pressed it 
down again. 

“ It is too late now. lie is so good—every body says 
so—and he is so very good to me.” 

She spoke aloud, though she was alone in the room, or 
rather because she was alone, after a habit which, like all 
solitarily reared and dreamy persons, Christian had had 
all her life—her young, short life—only twenty-one years 
—and yet it seemed to her a whole, long, weary exist¬ 
ence. 

“If I can but make him happy! If what is left of me 
is only enough to make him happy!” 

These broken sentences were repeated more than once, 
and then she stood silent, as though in a dream still. 

When she heard the door open, she turned round with 
that still, gentle, passive smile, which had welcomed Dr. 
Grey on every day of his brief “courting” days. It 


Christiaii^s Mistake, 


13 


never altered, though he entered in a character not the 
pleasantest for a bridegroom, with his three little children, 
one on either side of him, and the youngest in his arms. 

But there are some men, and mostly those grave, shy, 
and reserved men, who have always the truest and ten- 
derest hearts, whom nothing transforms so much as to be 
with children, especially if the children are their own. 
They are given to hiding a great deal, but the father in 
them can not be hid. Why should it? Every man who 
has any thing really manly in his nature knows well that 
to be a truly good father, carrying out by sober reason 
and conscience those duties which in the mother spring 
from instinct, is the utmost dignity to which his human 
nature can attain. 

Miss Oakley, like the rest of Avonsbridge, had long 
known Dr. Grey’s history; how he had married early, or 
(ill-natured report said) been married by, a widow lady, 
very handsome, and some years older than himself. 
However, the sharpest insinuations ever made against 
their domestic bliss were that she visited a good deal, 
while he was deeply absorbed in his studies. And 
when, after a good many childless years, she brought 
him a girl and boy, he became excessively fond of his 
children. Whether this implied that he had been disap¬ 
pointed in his wife, nobody could tell. He certainly did 
not publish his woes. Men seldom do. At the birth of 
a third child Mrs. Grey died, and then the widower’s 
grief, though unobtrusive, was sufficiently obvious to 
make Avonsbridge put all unkindly curiosity aside, and 
conclude that the departed lady must have been the most 
exemplary and well-beloved of wives and mothers. 


14 


Christian's Mistalce. 


All this, being town’s talk, Christian already knew; 
more she had never inquired, not even when she was en¬ 
gaged to him. Nor did Dr. Grey volunteer any infor¬ 
mation. The strongest and most soothing part of his 
influence over her was his exceeding silence. He had 
never troubled her with any great demonstrations, nor 
frightened her with questionings. From the time of 
their engagement he had seemed to take every thing for 
granted, and to treat her tenderly, almost reverently, 
without fuss or parade, yet with the consideration due 
from a man to his future wife; so much so that she had 
hardly missed, what, indeed, in her simplicity she hardly 
expected, the attention usually paid to an affianced bride 
from the relatives of her intended. Dr. Grey had only 
two, his own sister and his late wife’s. These ladies, 
Miss Gascoigne and Miss Grey, had neither called upon 
nor taken the least notice of Miss Oakley. But Miss 
Oakley—if she thought about the matter at all—ascribed 
it to a fact well recognized in Avonsbridge, as in most 
University towns, that one might as soon expect the 
skies to fall as for a college lady to cross, save for purely 
business purposes, the threshold of a High Street trades¬ 
man. The same cause, she concluded, made them absent 
from her wedding; and when Dr. Grey had said simply, 
“I shall desire my sisters to send the children,” Christian 
had inquired no farther. Only for a second, hanging on 
the brink of this first meeting with the children—her 
husband’s children, hers that were to be—did her heart 
fail her, and then she came forward to meet the little 
group. 

Letitia and Arthur were thin, prim - looking, rather 


Christianas Mistake, 


15 


plain children; but Oliver was the very picture of a hi; 
ther’s darling, a boy that any childless man would bitter¬ 
ly covet, any childless woman crave and yearn for, with a 
longing that women alone can understand; a child who, 
beautiful as most childhood is, had a beauty you rarely 
see—bright, frank, merry, bold ; half a Bacchus and half 
a Cupid, he was a perfect image of the Golden Age. 
Though three years old, he was evidently still “the baby,” 
and rode on his father’s shoulder with a glorious tyranny 
charming to behold. 

“Who’s that?” said he, pointing his fat fingers, and 
shaking his curls that undulated like billows of gold. 
“Papa, who’s that?” 

Hardly could there have been put by any one a more 
difficult question. Dr Grey did not answer, but avoided 
it, taking the whole three to Christian’s side, and bidding 
them, in a rather nervous voice, to “ kiss this lady.” 

But that ceremony the two elder obstinately declined. 

“ I’m a big boy, and I don’t like to be kissed,” said Ar¬ 
thur. 

“Nurse told us, since we had no mamma of our own, 
we were not to kiss any body but our aunts,” added Le 
titia. 

Dr. Grey looked terribly annoyed, but Christian said 
calmly, 

“Very well, then shake hands only. We shall be bet' 
ter friends by-and-by.” 

They suffered her to touch a little hand of each, pass¬ 
ively rather than unwillingly, and let it go. For a min¬ 
ute or so the bo}^ and girl stood opposite her, holding fast 
by one another, and staring with all their eyes ; but they 


16 


Christ lari's Mistake. 


said nothing more, being apparently very “ good” chil¬ 
dren, that is, children brought up under the old-fashioned 
rules, which are indicated in the celebrated rhyme, 

“ Come when you’re called, 

Do as you’re bid : 

Shut the door after you. 

And you'll never be chid.” 

Therefore, on being told to sit down, they gravely took 
their places on the sofa, and continued to stare. 

The father and bridegroom looked on, silent as they. 
What could he say or do ? It was the natural and nec¬ 
essary opening up of that vexed question—second mar¬ 
riages, concerning which moralists, sentimentalists, and 
practical people argue forever, and never come to any 
conclusion. Of course not, because each separate case 
should decide itself. The only universal rule or law, if 
there be one, is that which applies equally to the love be¬ 
fore marriage; that as to a complete, mutual first love, 
any after love is neither likely, necessary, nor desirable; 
so, to any one who has known a perfect first marriage— 
fhe whole satisfaction of every requirement of heart, and 
'oul, and human affection—unto such, a second marriage, 
like a second love, would be neither right nor wrong, ad¬ 
visable nor unadvisable, but simply impossible. 

What could he do—the father who had just given his 
children a new mother, they being old enough not only 
to understand this, but previously taught, as most people 
are so fatally ready to teach children, the usual doctrine 
about step-mothers, and also quite ready to rebel against 
the .same? 

The step-mother likewise, what could she do, even had 


Christian's Mistake, 


17 


she recognized and felt all that the children’s behavior 
implied ? 

Alas I (I say “alas 1” for this was as sad a thing as the 
other) she did not recognize it. She scarcely noticed it 
at all. In her countenance was no annoyance—no sharp 
pain, that even in that first bridal hour she was not first 
and sole, as every woman may righteously wish to be. 
There came to her no sting of regret, scarcely unnatural, 
to watch another woman’s children already taking the 
first and best of that fatherly love which it would be such 
exquisite joy to see lavished upon her own. Alas! poor 
Christian! all these things passed over her as the wind 
passes over a bare February tree, stirring no emotions, for 
there were none to stir. Her predominating feeling was 
a vague sense of relief in the presence of the children, and 
of delight in the exceeding beauty of the youngest. 

“ This is Oliver. I remember you told me his name. 
Will he come to me? children generally do,” said she, in 
a shy sort of way, but still holding out her arms. In her 
face and manner was that inexplicable motherliness which 
some girls have even while nursing their dolls—some 
never; ay, though they may boast of a houseful of chil¬ 
dren—never! 

Master Oliver guessed this by instinct, as children al¬ 
ways do. He looked at her intently, a queer, mischiev¬ 
ous, yet penetrating look ; then broke into a broad, genial 
laugh, quite Bacchic, and succumbed. Christian, the sol¬ 
itary governess, first the worse than orphan, and then the 
real orphan, without a friend or relative in the world, felt 
a child clinging round her neck—a child toward whom, 
by the laws of God and man, she was bound to fulfill all 


18 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


the duties of a mother—duties which, from the time when 
she insisted on having a “ big doll,” that she might dress 
it, not like a fine lady, but “like a baby,” had always 
seemed to her the very sweetest in all the world. Her 
heart leaped with a sudden ecstasy, involuntary and un¬ 
controllable. 

“My bonny boy!” she murmured, kissing the top of 
that billowy curl which extended from brow to crown— 
“ my curl”—for Oliver immediately and proudly pointed 
it out to her. “ And to think that his mother never saw 
him. Poor thing! poor thing!” 

Dr. Grey turned away to the window. What remem¬ 
brances, bitter or sweet, came over the widower’s heart. 
Heaven knows! But he kept them between himself and 
Heaven, as he did all things that were incommunicable 
and inevitable, and especially all things that could have 
given pain to any human being. He only said on re¬ 
turning, 

“ I knew, Christian, from the first, that you would be a 
good mother to my children.” 

She looked up at him, the tears in her eyes, but with a 
great light shining in them too. 

“I will try.” 

Poor Christian ! If her hasty marriage, or any other 
mistake of her life, needed pardon, surely it might be won 
for the earnest sincerity of this vow, and for its self-for¬ 
getful, utter humility—“ I will try.” 

For another half hour, at her entreaty, the children 
staid, though Letitia and Arthur never relaxed from their 
dignified decorum farther than to inform her that they 
were sometimes called “ Titia” and “ Atty;” that their 


Christianas Mistake. 


19 


nurse was named Phillis; and that she had remained in 
the carriage because “she said she wouldn’t come in.” 
Still, having expected nothing, the young step-mother was 
not disappointed. And when the three left, Oliver hav¬ 
ing held up his rosy mouth voluntarily for “ a good large 
kiss,” the sweetness of that caress lingered on her mouth 
like a chrism of consecration, sanctifying her for these 
new duties which seemed to have been sent to her with¬ 
out her choice, almost without her volition; for she oft¬ 
en felt, when she paused to think at all, as if in the suc¬ 
cessive links of circumstances which had brought about 
her marriage, she had been a passive agent, led on step by 
step, like a person half asleep. Would she ever awake? 

When Mrs. Ferguson, re entering, ready with any 
amount of sympathy, found the young step-mother kiss¬ 
ing her hand to the retreating carriage with a composed 
smile, which asked no condolence, and offered no confi¬ 
dences, the good lady was, to say the least, surprised. 
“But,” as she afterward confessed to at least two dozen 
of her most intimate friends, “ there always was something 
so odd, so different from most young ladies about Miss 
Oakley.” However, to the young lady herself she said 
nothing, except suggesting, rather meekly, that it was 
time to change her dress. 

“And just once more let me beg you to take my shawl 
—my very best—instead of your own, which you have 
had a year and half. Ah!” sighing, “if you had only 
spent more money on your wedding clothes 1” 

“ How could I ?” said Christian, and stopped, seeing Dr. 
Grey enter. This was the one point on which she had re¬ 
sisted him. She could not accept her trousseau from her 


20 


ChristiarCs Mistake, 


husband’s generosity. It had been the last struggle of 
that fierce, poverty-nurtured independence, which noth¬ 
ing short of perfect love could have extinguished into 
happy humility, and she had held to her point resolute 
and hard; so much so, that when, with a quiet dignity pe¬ 
culiarly his own. Dr. Grey had yielded, she had afterward 
almost felt ashamed. And even now a slight blush came 
in her cheek when she heard him say cheerfully, 

“ Do not trouble her, Mrs. Ferguson, about her shawl. 
You know I have taken her—that is, we have taken one 
another ‘ for better, for worse,’ and it is little matter what 
sort of clothes she wears.” 

Christian, as she passed him, gave her husband a grate¬ 
ful look. Grateful, alas! Love does not understand, or 
even recognize, gratitude. 

But when the door closed after her. Dr. Grey’s eyes 
rested on it like those of one who misses a light. 

He sat down covering his mouth—his firmly-set but 
excessively sensitive mouth, with his hand, an attitude 
which was one of his peculiarities; for he had many, 
which the world excused because of his learning, and his 
friends—well, because of himself. 

If ever there was a man who, without the slightest ob¬ 
trusiveness, or self-assertion of any kind, had unlimited 
influence over those about him, it was Arnold Grey. 
Throughout a life spent entirely within the college 
walls, he had, from freshman to fellow, from thence to 
tutor, and so on to the early dignity of mastership, the 
most extraordinary faculty of making people do whatso¬ 
ever he liked—ay, and enjoy the doing of it. Friends, 
acquaintances, undergraduates, even down to children 


Christianas Mistake. 


21 


and servants, all did, more or less, sooner or later, the 
good pleasure of Dr. Grey. Perhaps the secret of this 
was that his “pleasure” was never merely his own. 
None wield such absolute power over others as those 
who think little about themselves. 

Had circumstances, or his own inclination, led him out 
farther into the world, he might have been noticeable 
there, for he had very great and varied acquirements— 
more acquirements, perhaps, than originalities. He had 
never written a book, but he had read almost every book 
that ever was written—or, at least, such was the belief 
current in Avonsbridge. In his study he was literally 
entombed in books—volumes in all languages—and 
Avonsbridge supposed him able to read them all. How 
far this was a popular superstition, and to what length 
his learning went, it is impossible to say. But nobody 
ever came quite to the end of it. He was a silent, mod¬ 
est man, who never spoke much of what he knew, or of 
himself in any wise. His strongest outward characteris¬ 
tic was quietness, both of manner, speech, motions, spring¬ 
ing, it appeared, out of a corresponding quietness of soul. 
Whether it had been born with him, or through what 
storms of human passion and suffering he had attained 
to this permanent central calm, who could say? Cer¬ 
tainly nobody knew or was likely to know ; for the Mas¬ 
ter of Saint Bede’s was a person, the depth of whose na¬ 
ture could not be fathomed easily with any line. Pos¬ 
sibly because, old as he was, it happened, as does hap¬ 
pen in some lives, that the right plumb line, by the right 
hand, had never been dropped yet. 

As he sat, his grave eyes fixed on the ground, and his 


22 


ChristiaTi^s 3fistaJce. 


mouth covered by the long thin brown hand—the sort 
of hand you see in mediaeval portraits of student-gentle¬ 
men—nothing of him was discernible except the gentle¬ 
man and the student. Not though he sat waiting for his 
“two-hours’ wife,” whom undoubtedly he had married 
for love—pure love—the only reason for which any one, 
man or woman, old or young, ought to dare to marry. 
That he could feel as very few have the power to feel, no 
one who was any judge of physiognomy could doubt for 
a moment; yet he sat perfectly quiet—the quietness of a 
man accustomed to something safer and higher than self¬ 
suppression—self-control. When Mr. Ferguson came in, 
he rose and began to speak about the weather and local 
topics, as men do speak to one another—and better that 
they should!—even at such crises as weddings or fu¬ 
nerals. 

And Christian, his wife ? 

She had run up stairs—ran almost with her former 
light step, for her heart felt lighteninl with the childish 
smile of little Oliver—to the attic which for the last nine 
months she had occupied—the nursery, now made into a 
bedroom, and tenanted by herself and the two little Fer¬ 
gusons. No special sanctity of appropriation had it; a 
large, somewliat bare room, in which not a thing was her 
own, either to miss or leave behind. For, in truth, she 
had nothing of her own; the small personalities which 
she had contrived to drag about with her from lodging 
to lodging having all gone to pay debts, which she had 
insisted—and Dr. Grey agreed—ought to be paid before 
she was married. So he had taken from her the desk, 
the work-table, and the other valueless yet well-prized 


Christian's Mistake. 


23 


feminine trifles, and brought her, as their equivalent, a 
sum large enough to pay both these debts and all her 
marriage expenses, which sum she, ignorant and un* 
suspicious, took gratefully, merely saying “ he was very 
kind.” 

She now looked round on her sole worldly possessions 
—the large trunk which contained her ordinary apparel, 
and the smaller one, in which were packed all she need¬ 
ed for her fortnight’s marriage tour. Her traveling dress 
lay on the bed—a plain dark silk—her only silk gown 
except the marriage one. She let Mrs. Ferguson array 
her in it, and then, with her usual mechanical orderliness, 
began folding up the shining white draperies and laying 
them in the larger trunk. 

“Shall I send that direct to the Lodge, my dear?” 

Christian looked' up absentl3\ 

“To Saint Bede’s Lodge—you know—that it may be 
ready for you when you come home?” 

Home—that blessed word which should send a thrill 
to the heart of any bride. Alas! this bride heard it 
quite unheeding, saying only, “Ho what you think best, 
Mrs. Ferguson.” 

And then she proceeded to fasten her collar and com¬ 
plete the minutiae of her dress with that careful neatness 
which was an instinct with Christian, as itds with all 
womanly women, though how this poor motherless girl 
had ever learned womanliness at all was a marvel. She 
answered chiefly in soft monosyllables to the perpetual 
stream of Mrs. Ferguson’s talk, till at last the good soul 
could no longer restrain herself. 

“ Oh, my dear, if you would onl3^ speak—only let out 


24 


Christian''s Mistake. 


your feelings a little; for you must feel this day so; I’m 
sure I do, just as if it were my own wedding-day, or Isa¬ 
bella’s, or Sarah Jane’s. And when they do come to be 
married, poor lambs! I hope it will be as good a match 
as you are making—only, perhaps, not a widower. But 
I beg your pardon. Oh, Miss Oakley, my dear, we shall 
miss you so!” 

And the good woman, who had a heart—and hearts 
are worth something—clasped the orphan-bride to her 
broad bosom, and shed over her a torrent of honest tears. 

“Thank you,” Christian said, and returned the kiss 
gently, but no tears came to her eyes. 

“And now,” added Mrs. Ferguson, recovering herself, 
“ I’ll go and see that every thing is right; and I’ll get my 
warm tartan shawl for you to travel in. It’s a terrible 
snowy day still. You’ll come down stairs presently?” 

“Yes.” 

But the instant Mrs.Ferguson was gone Christian lock¬ 
ed the door. The same look, of more than pain—actual 
fear—crossed her face. She stood motionless, as if trying 
to collect herself, and then, with her hands all shaking, 
took from her traveling-trunk a sealed packet. For a 
second she seemed irresolute, and only a second. 

“ It must be done—it is right. I ought to have done 
it before. . . . Good-by! forever.” 

Good-by to what—or to whom ? 

All that the fire revealed, as she laid the packet on it, 
stirring it down into a red hollow, so that not a flickering 
fragment should be left unconsumed, were four letters— 
only four—written on dainty paper, in a man’s hand, seal¬ 
ed with a man’s large heraldic seal. When they were 
mere dust, Christian rose. 


Chrlstiari's Mistake. 


25 


“It is over now—quite over. In the whole world there 
is nobody to believe in—except him. He is very good, 
and he loves me. I was right to marry him—yes, quite 
right.” 

She repeated this more than once, as if compelling her¬ 
self to acknowledge it, and then paused. 

Christian was not exactly a religious woman—that is, 
she had lived aniong such utterly irreligious people, that 
whatever she thought or felt upon these subjects had to 
be kept entirely to herself—but she was of a religious na¬ 
ture. She said her prayers dulj^, and she had one habit 
—or superstition, some might sneeringly call it—that the 
last thing before she went on a journey she always open¬ 
ed her Bible, read a verse or two, and knelt down, if only 
to say, “ God, take care of me, and bring me safe back 
again petitions that in many a wretched compelled wan¬ 
dering were not so uncalled for as some might suppose. 
Before this momentous journey she did the same; but, 
instead of a Bible, it happened to be the children’s Pray¬ 
er-Book which she took up; it opened at the Marriage 
Service,which they had been inquisitively conning over; 
and the first words which flashed upon Christian’s eyes 
were those which had two hours ago passed over her deaf 
ears, and dull, uncomprehending heart— 

“id)?* this cause shall a man leave his father and his moth¬ 
er, and he joined unto his wife, and they two shall he one 
flesh:^ 

She started, as if only now she began to comprehend 
the full force of that awful union—“one flesh,” and “till 
death us do part.” 

Mrs. Ferguson tried the door, and knocked. 

B 


26 


KjhristiarCs 3Jistake. 


Dr. Grey is waiting, my dear. You must not keep 
your husband waiting.” 

“ My husband!” and again came the wild look, as of a 
free creature suddenly caught, tied, and bound. “ What 
have I done? oh, what have I done? Is it too late?” 

Ay, it was too late. 

Many a woman has married with far less excuse than 
Christian did—married for money or* position, or in a 
cowardly yielding to family persuasion, some one who 
she knew did not love her, or whom she did not love, 
with the only sort of love which makes marriage sacred. 
What agonies such women must have endured, if they 
had any spark of feminine feeling left alive, they them¬ 
selves know ; and what Christian, far more guiltless than 
chey, also endured, during the three minutes that she kept 
Mrs. Ferguson waiting at the locked door, was a thing 
never to be spoken of, but also never to be forgotten dur¬ 
ing the longest and happiest lifetime. It was a warning 
that made her—even her—to the end of her days, say to 
every young woman she knew, “ Beware! marry for love^ 
or never marry at all.” 

When she descended, every ray of color had gone out 
of her face—it was white and passionless as stone; but 
she kissed the children all round, gave a little present to 
Isabella, who had been her only bridesmaid, shook hands 
and said a word or two of thanks to honest James Fergu¬ 
son, her “ father” for the day, and then found herself driv¬ 
ing through the familiar streets—not alone. She never 
would be alone any more. 

With a shudder, a sense of dread indescribable, she re¬ 
membered this. All her innocent, solitary, dreamy days 


ChrutiarCs Mistake. 


27 


quite over; her happiness vanished; her regrets become 
a crime. The responsibility of being no longer her own, 
but another’s—bound fixedly and irrevocably by the most 
solemn vow that can be given or taken, subject to no lim¬ 
itations, provisions, or exceptions, while life remained. 
Oh, it was awful—awful! 

She could have shrieked, and leaped out of the car¬ 
riage, to run wildly any where—to the world’s end—when 
she felt her hand taken, softly but firmly. 

“ My dear, how cold you are! Let me make you 
warm, if I can.” 

And then, in his own quiet, tender way. Dr. Grey 
wrapped her up in her shawl, and rolled a rug about her 
feet. She took no notice, submitted passively, and nei¬ 
ther spoke a word more till they had driven on for two 
or three miles, into a country road leading to a village 
where Avonsbridge people sometimes went for summer 
lodgings. 

Christian knew it well. There, just before her father’s 
death, he and she had lived, for four delicious, miserable, 
momentous weeks. She had never seen the place since, 
but now she recognized it—every tree, every field, the 
very farm-house garden, once so bright, now lying deep 
in snow. She began to tremble in every limb. 

“ Why are we here ? This is not our right road. 
Where are we going?” 

“ I did not mean to come this way, but we missed the 
train, and can not reach London to-night; so I thought 

we would post across country to E-,” naming a quiet 

cathedral town, “ where you can rest, and go on when or 
where you please. Will that do?” 


28 


Christianas Mistake. 


“ Oh yes.” 

“You are not dissatisfied? We could not help miss¬ 
ing the train, you see.” 

“Oh no.” 

The quick, sharp, querulous answers—the last refuge 
of a fictitious strength that was momentarily breaking 
down—he saw it all, this good man, this generous, pitiful- 
hearted man, who knew what sorrow was, and who for a 
whole year had watched her with the acuteness which 
love alone teaches, especially the love which, coming late 
in life, had a calmness and unselfishness which youthful 
love rarely possesses. The sort of love which, as he had 
once quoted to her out of an American book, could feel, 
deeply and solemnly, “ that if a man really loves a wom¬ 
an, he would not marry her for the world, were he not 
quite sure he was the best person she could by any pos¬ 
sibility marry”—that is, the one who loved her so per¬ 
fectly that he was prepared to take upon himself all the 
burden of her future life, her happiness or sorrow, her pe¬ 
culiarities, shortcomings, faults, and all. 

This, though he did not speak a word, was written, 
plain as in a book, on the face of Christian’s husband, as 
he watched her, still silently, for another mile, till the ear¬ 
ly winter sunset, bursting through the leaden - colored, 
snowy sky, threw a faint light in at the carriage win¬ 
dow. 

Christian looked up, and closed her eyes again in a 
passive hopelessness sad to see. 

Her husband watched her still. Once he sighed—a 
rather sad sigh for a bridegroom, and then a light, better 
and holier than love, or rather the essence of all love, self- 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


29 


denial and self-forgetfulness, brightened up his whole 
countenance. 

“ How very tired she is; but I shall take care of her, 
my poor child!” 

The words were as gentle as if he had been speaking 
to one of his own children, and he drew her to him with 
a tender, protecting fatherliness which seemed the natural 
habit of his life, such as never in her poor, forlorn life 
had any one shown to Christian Oakley. It took away 
all her doubts, all her fears. For the moment she forgot 
she was married, forgot every thing but his goodness, his 
tenderness, his care over her, and her great and sore need 
of the same. -She turned and clung to him, weeping pas¬ 
sionately. 

“ I have nobody in the whole world but you. Oh, be 
kind to me!” 

“I will,’’ said Arnold Grrey. 


30 


Christian's Mistake. 


CHAPTER IL 

“You’ll love me yet! and I can tarry 
Your love’s protracted growing: 

June reaped that bunch of flowers you carry 
From seeds of April’s sowing.” 

Saint Bede’s is one of the most ancient of the minor 
colleges of Avonsbridge. Its foundress’s sweet, pale, 
suffering face, clad in the close coif of the time of the 
wars of the Roses, still smiles over the fellows’ table in 
hall, and adorns the walls of combination-room. The 
building itself has no great architectural beauty except 
the beauty of age. Its courts are gray and still, and its 
grounds small; in fact, it possesses only the Lodge gar¬ 
den, and a walk between tall trees on the other side of 
the Avon, which is crossed by a very curious bridge. 
The Lodge itself is so close to the river, that from its 
windows you may drop a stone into the dusky, slowly 
rippling, sluggish water, which seems quieter and deeper 
there than at any other college past which it flows. 

Saint Bede’s is, as I said, a minor college, rarely num¬ 
bering more than fifty gownsmen at a time, and main¬ 
taining, both as to sports and honors, a mild mediocrity. 
For years it had not sent any first-rate man either to 
boat-race, or cricket-ground, or senate-house. Lately, 
however, it had boasted one, quite an Admirable Crich- 


Christianas Mistake, 


31 


ton in his way, who, had his moral equaled his mental 
qualities, would have carried all before him. As it was, 
being discovered in offenses not merely against Univer¬ 
sity authority, but obnoxious to society at large, he had 
been rusticated. Though the matter was kept as private 
as possible, its details being known only to the master, 
dean, and tutor, still it made a nine-day’s talk, not only 
in the college, but in the town—until the remorseless 
wave of daily life, which so quickly closes over the head 
of either ill-doer or well-doer, closed completely over that 
of Edwin Uniacke. 

Kecovering from the shock of his turpitude, the college 
now reposed in peace upon its slender list of well-con¬ 
ducted and harmless undergraduates, its two or three tu¬ 
tors, and its dozen or so of gray old fellows, who dozed 
away their evenings in combination-room. Even such 
an event as the master’s second marriage had scarcely 
power to stir Saint Bede’s from its sleepy equanimity. 

It was, indeed, a peaceful place. It had no grand en¬ 
trance, but in a narrow back street you came suddenly 
upon its ancient gateway, through which you passed into 
a mediaeval world. The clock-tower and clock, with an 
upright sundial affixed below it, marked the first court, 
whence, through a passage which, as is usual in colleges, 
had the hall on one hand and the buttery on the other, 
you entered the second court, round three sides of which 
ran cloisters of very ugly, very plain, but very ancient 
architecture. In a corner of these cloisters was the door 
of the Lodge—the master’s private dwelling. 

Private it could hardly be called; for, like all these 
lodgti*?^ of colleges, it had an atmosphere most anti-home- 


32 


Christian's Mistake. 


like, which at first struck you as extremely painful. Its 
ancientness, both of rooms and furniture, added to this 
feeling. When you passed through the small entrance- 
hall, up the stone staircase, and into a long, narrow, mys¬ 
terious gallery, looking as it must have looked for two 
centuries at least, you felt an involuntary shiver, as of 
warm, human, daily life brought suddenly into contact 
with the pale ghosts of the past. You could not escape 
the haunting thought that these oaken tables were dined 
at, these high-backed chairs sat upon, these black-framed, 
dirt-obscured portraits gazed at and admired by people, 
once flesh and blood like yourself, who had become skel¬ 
etons—nay, mere dust, centuries before you were born. 
Also, that other people would be dining, sitting, gazing, 
and talking in this very same spot long after you your¬ 
self had become a skeleton in your turn. 

This impression of the exceeding mutability of all 
things, common to most very old houses, was stronger 
than ordinary in this house, whose owners did not even 
hold it by ancestral right, so as to find and leave behind 
some few ancestral ties and memories, but came and went, 
with all that belonged to them; the only trace of their 
occupancy and themselves being a name on the college 
books, or a solitary portrait on the college wall. The 
old dervish’s saying to the Eastern king, “Sire, this is 
not a palace, but a caravanserai,” might have been ap¬ 
plied here only too truly. It was not a home, it was the 
lodge of a college. 

Until eighteen months ago, the date of Dr. Grey’s ap¬ 
pointment, there had not been a woman’s face or a child’s 
foot about it for a hundred and fifty years. All the mas- 


Christian's Mistake. 


33 


ters had been unmarried—grim, grave fello'ws—advanced 
in years. Dr. Arnold Grey, whose fellowship had termi¬ 
nated earl}^, and who had afterward been tutor and dean, 
was the youngest master that had ever been known at 
Saint Bede’s; and his election might consequently have 
been unpopular had he not been personally so much 
liked, and had there not happened immediately afterward 
that scandal about Edwin Uniacke. Therein he acted so 
promptly and wisely, that the sleepy, timid old dons, as 
well as the Uniacke family—for the lad was highly con¬ 
nected—were thankful that this unlucky business had 
not occurred in the time of the late master, who was both 
old and foolish, and would have made it the talk of all 
England, instead of hushing it up, with the prudent de¬ 
cision of Dr. Grey, so that now it was scarcely spoken of 
beyond the college walls. 

Solemn, quiet, and beautiful, as if they had never 
known a scandal or a traged}^, slept those old walls in 
the moonlight, which streamed also in long bars from 
window to window, across the ghostly gallery before 
mentioned. Ghostly enough in all conscience; and yet 
two little figures went trotting fearlessly down it, as they 
did every night at eight o’clock, between the two ancient 
apartments now converted into dining-room and nursery. 
The master’s children were too familiar with these grim, 
shadowy corners to feel the slightest dread ; besides, they 
were not imaginative children. To Arthur, an ‘‘ally 
taw,” that is, a real alabaster marble, such as he now 
fumbled in his pocket, was an object of more importance 
than all the defunct bishops, archbishops, kings, queens, 
and benefactors of every sort, whose grim portraits stared 
B 2 


84 


Christiaii’s Mistake. 


at him by day and night. And Letitia was far more 
anxious that the candle she carried should not drop any 
of its grease upon her best silk frock, than alarmed at 
the giotesque shadows it cast, making every portrait 
seem to follow her with its eyes, as old portraits always 
do. Neither child was very interesting. Letitia, with 
her angular figure and thin light hair, looked not unlike 
a diminished spectral reflection of the foundress herself 
—that pale, prim, pre-Eaphaelitish dame who was repre¬ 
sented all over the college, in all sizes and varieties of 
the limner’s art. Arthur, who hung a little behind his 
sister, was different from her, being stout and square; 
but he, too, was not an attractive child, and there was a 
dormant sullenness in his under lip which showed he 
could be a very naughty one if he chose. 

“ I told you so, Titia,” said he, darting to an open door 
facing the staircase at the gallerj^’s end. “There’s papa’s 
study fire lit. I knew he was coming home to-night, 
though aunts won’t let us sit up, as he said we should. 
But I will! I’ll lie awake, if it’s till twelve o'clock, and 
call him as he passes the nursery door.” 

“You forget,” said Titia, drawing herself up with a 
womanly air, “papa will not be alone now. He may not 
care to come to you now he has got Mrs. Grey.” 

“Mrs. Grey!” 

“You know aunts told us always to call her so. I’m 
sure I don’t want to call her an}^ thing. I hate her 1” 

“So do I,” rejoined the boy, doubling up his fist with 
intense enjoyment. “Wouldn’t I like to pitch into her 
for marrying papal But yet,” with a sudden compunc¬ 
tion, “she gave us lots of cake. And she looked rather 
—jolly, eh?” 


Christian's Mistake. 


35 


“Jolly! You boys are so vulgar,” said the little lady, 
contemptuously. “But I dare say you’ll like her, for 
aunts say she is quite a vulgar person. As for me, I 
don’t mean to take any notice of her at all.” 

“A deal she’ll care for that! Who minds you? you’re 
only a girl.” 

“I’m glad I’m not a big, ugly, dirty-handed, common 
boy.” 

Arthur’s reply was short and summary, administered 
by one of those dirty hands, as he was in the habit of 
administering what he doubtless considered justice to his 
much cleverer, more precocious, and very sharp-tongued 
Bister, even though she was “a girl.” It was the only 
advantage he had over her, and he used it, chivalry not 
being a thing which comes natural to most boys, and it, 
as well as the root and core of it, loving-kindness, not 
having been one of the things taught in these children’s 
nursery. 

Letitia set up an outcry of injured innocence, upon 
which nurse, who waited at the foot of the stairs, seeing 
something was amiss, while not stopping to discover what 
it was, did as she always did under similar circumstances 
—she flew to the contending parties and soundly thumped 
them both. 

“Get to bed, you naughty children; you’re always 
quarreling,” rang the sharp voice, rising above Letitia’s 
wail and Arthur’s storm of furious sobs. The girl yield¬ 
ed, but the boy hung back;, and it was not until after a 
regular stand-up fight between him and the woman—a 
big, sturdy woman too—that he was carried off, still des¬ 
perately resisting, and shouting that he would have his 
revenge as soon as ever papa came home. 


36 


Christianas Mistake. 


Letitia followed quietly enough, as if the scene were 
too common for her to trouble herself much about it. 
The only other witness to it was the portrait of the mild¬ 
faced foundress, which seemed through the shadows of 
centuries to look down pitifully on these motherless chil¬ 
dren, as if with a remembrance of her own two little 
sons, whose sorrowful tale—is it not to be found in every 
English Ilistoiy, and why repeat it hero? 

Motherless children indeed these were, and had been, 
practically, ever since they were born. All the woman¬ 
ly bringing up they had had, even in Mrs. Grey’s life¬ 
time, had come from that grim nurse, Phillis. 

Phillis was not an ordinary woman. The elements of 
a tragedy were in her low, broad, observant, and intelli¬ 
gent forehead, her keen black e3ms, and her full-lipped, 
under-hanging mouth. Though past thirt^^, she was still 
cornel}^, and when she looked pleasant, it was not an un* 
pleasant face. Yet there lurked in it possibilities of pas¬ 
sion that made you tremble, especiall}^ considering that 
she had the charge of growing children. You did not 
wonder at her supremacy in the nurseiy, but you won¬ 
dered very much that any mother could have allowed 
her to acquire it. 

For the n'st, Phillis had entered the family as Letitia’s 
wet-nurse, with the sad story of most wet-nurses. Her 
own child having died, she took to her foster-child with 
such intensity of devotedness as to save Mrs. Grey all 
trouble of loving or looking-after the liUle creature from 
henceforward. And so she staid, through many storms 
and warnings to leave, but she never did leave—she was 
too necessary. And, in one sense, Phillis did her duty. 


ChristiaiCs Mistake, 


37 


Physically, no children conld be better cared for than the 
little Greys. They were always well washed, well clad, 
and, in a certain external sense, well managed. The 
“ rod in pickle,” which Phillis always kept in the nur¬ 
sery, maintained a form of outward discipline and even 
manners, so far as Phillis knew what manners meant; 
morals too, in Phillis’s style of morality. Beyond that, 
Phillis’s own will—strong and obstinate as it was—made 
laws for itself, which the children were obliged to obey. 
They rebelled; sometimes they actually hated her, and 
yet she had great influence over them—the earliest and 
closest influence they had ever known. Besides, the 
struggle had only begun when they were old enough to 
have some sense of the difference between justice and 
injustice, submission compelled and obedience lawfully 
won; to infants and little children Phillis w^as always 
very tender—nay, passionately loving. 

As she was to Oliver, who, wakening at the storm in 
the nursery, took to sleepy crying, and was immediately 
lulled in her arms with the fondest soothing; the fiercest 
threatenings between whiles being directed to Letitia and 
Arthur, until they both slunk off to bed, sullen and si¬ 
lent—at war with one another, with Phillis, and with the 
whole world. 

But children’s woes are transient. By-and-by Titia’s 
fretful face settled into sleepy peace; the angry flush 
melted from Arthur’s hot cheeks; Oliver had already 
been transferred to his crib; and Phillis settled herself 
to her sewing, queen regnant of tlie silent nursery. 

Meanwhile, at the other end of the ghostly gallery, sat, 
over the dining-room fire, the two other rulers, guardians, 


38 


Christiari's Mistake, 


and guides of these three children—“the aunts”—Miss 
Gascoigne and Miss Grey; for these ladies still remained 
at the Lodge. Dr. Grey had asked Christian if she wish¬ 
ed them to leave, for they had a house of their own near 
Avonsbridge, and she had answered indifferently, “ Oh 
no; let them do as they like.” As she liked did not seem 
to enter into her thoughts. Alas! that sacred dual soli¬ 
tude, which most young wives naturally and rightfully 
desire, was no vital necessity to Christian Grey. 

So the two ladies, who had come to the Lodge when 
their sister died, had declared their intention of remain¬ 
ing there, at least for the present, “ for the sake of those 
poor dear children.” And, dressed in all their best, they 
sat solemnly waiting the arrival of the children’s father 
and step-mother—“ that young woman,” as they always 
spoke of her in Avonsbridge. 

What Dr. Grey had gone through in domestic opposi¬ 
tion before he married, he alone knew, and he never told. 
But he had said, as every man under similar circum¬ 
stances has a right to say, “ I will marry,” and had done 
it. Besides, he was a just man ; he was fully aware that 
<) his sisters Christian was not—could not be as yet, any 
more than the organist’s daughter and the silversmith’s 
governess, while they were University ladies. But he 
knew them, and he knew her; he was not afraid. 

They were a strong contrast, these two, the ladies at 
the Lodge. Miss Gre}^, the elder, was a little roly-poly 
woman, with a meek, round, hiir-complexioned face, and 
pulpy, soft hands—one of those people who irresistibly 
remind one of a white mouse. She was neither clever nor 
wise, but she was very sweet-tempered. She had loved 


Christian's Mistake. 


39 


Dr. Grey all her life. From the time that she, a big girl, 
had dandled him, a baby, in her lap; throughout her brief 
youth, when she was engaged to young Mr. Gascoigne, 
who died; up to her somewhat silly and helpless middle- 
age, there never was any body, to Miss Grey, like “ my 
brother Arnold.” Faithfulness is a rare virtue; let us 
criticise her no more, but pass her over, faults and all. 

Miss Gascoigne was a lady who could not be passed 
over on any account. Nothing would have so seriously 
offended her. From her high nose to her high voice and 
her particularly high temper, every thing about her was 
decidedly prononcL There was no extinguishing her or 
putting her into a corner. Father than be unnoticed— 
if such a thing she could ever believe possible—she would 
make herself noticeable in any way, even in an ill way. 
She was a good-looking woman, and a clever woman too, 
only not quite clever enough to find out one slight fact— 
that there might be any body in the world superior to 
herself. 

“ Set down your value at your own huge rate, 

The world will pay it”— 

for a time. And so the world had paid it pretty well to 
Miss Gascoigne, but was beginning a little to weary of 
her; except fond Miss Grey, who still thought that, as 
there never was a man like “dear Arnold,” so there was 
not a woman any where to compare with “dear Henri¬ 
etta.” 

There is always something pathetic in this sort of alli¬ 
ance between two single women unconnected by blood. 
It implies a substitution for better things—marriage or 
kindred ties; and has in some cases a narrowing tenden- 


40 


Christiari's Mistake. 


cy. No two people, not even married people, can live 
alone together for a number of years without sinking into 
a sort of double selfishness, ministering to one another’s 
fancies, humors, and even faults in a way that is not pos¬ 
sible, or probable, in the wider or wholesomer life of a 
family. And if, as is almost invariably the case—indeed 
otherwise such a tie between women could not long exist 
—the stronger governs the weaker, one domineers and 
the other obeys, the result is bad for both. It might be 
seen in the fidgety restlessness of Miss Gascoigne, wliose 
eyes, still full of passionate fire, lent a painful youthful¬ 
ness to her faded face, and in the lazy supineness of Miss 
Grey, who seemed never to have an opinion or a thought 
of her own. This was the dark side of the picture; the 
bright side being that it is perfectly impossible for two 
women, especially single women, to live together, in friend¬ 
ship and harmony, for nearly twenty years, without a firm 
basis of moral worth existing in their characters, produc¬ 
ing a fidelity of regard which is not only touching, but 
honorable to both. 

They sat, one on either side the fire, in the long un. 
broken silence of people who are so used to one another 
that they feel no necessity for talking, until Miss Gas¬ 
coigne spoke first, as she always did. 

“I wonder what Dr. Grey meant by desiring the chil¬ 
dren to be kept out of their beds till his return. As if I 
should allow it! And to order a tea-dinner! No won¬ 
der Barker looked astonished. He never knew my poor 
sister have any thing but a proper dinner, at the proper 
hour; but it’s just that young woman’s doing. In her 
position, of course she always dined at one o’clock.” 


Christianas Mistake. 


4 \ 


“ Very likely,” said Miss Grey, assentingly. Dissent 
she never did, in any thing, from any body, least of all 
from Miss Gascoigne. 

That lady fidgeted again, poked the fire, regarded her¬ 
self in the mirror, and settled her cap—no, lier head-dress, 
for Miss Grey always insisted that “dear Ilenrietta” was 
too young to wear caps, and admired fervently the still 
olack—too black hair, the m3^stery of which was only 
known to Henrietta herself. 

“What o’clock is it? half past nine, I declare. Most 
annoying—most impertinent—to keep us waiting for our 
tea in this way. Your brother never did it before.” 

“I hope there is no accident,” said Miss Grey, looking 
up alarmed. “ The snow might be dangerous on the rail- 
way.” 

“Maria, if you had any sense—but I think you have 
Jess and less every day—you would remember that they 
are not coming by rail at all—of course not. On the very 
first day of term, when Dr. Grey would meet so many peo¬ 
ple he knew ; and to have to introduce his wife! Why, 
every body would have laughed at him; and no wonder. 
Verily, there’s no fool like an old fool.” 

“Henrietta!” pitifully appealed the sister, “y^ou know 
dear Arnold is not a fool. He never did a foolish thing 
in his life—except, perhaps, in making this unfortunate 
marriage. And she may improve. Any body ought to 
improve who had the advantage of living constantly with 
dear Arnold.” 

Miss Gascoigne, always on the watch for affronts, turn¬ 
ed sharply round, but there was not a shadow of satire in 
her friend’s simplicity. “ My dear Maria, you arc the 
greatest—” 


42 


Christianas Mistake. 


But what Miss Grey was remained among the few bit¬ 
ter speeches that Miss Gascoigne left unsaid, for at that 
moment the heavy oak door was thrown wide open, and 
Barker, the butler (time - honored institution of Saint 
Bede’s, who thought himself one of its strongest pillars 
of support), repeated, in his sonorous voice, 

“ The master and Mrs. Grey.” 

Thus announced—suddenly and formally, like a stran¬ 
ger, in her own house—Christian came home. 

The two maiden aunts rose ceremoniously. Either 
their politeness sprang from their natural habit of good¬ 
breeding, or it was wrung from them by extreme surprise. 
The apparition before them—tall, graceful, and dignified 
—could by no means be mistaken for any thing but a 
lady—such a lady as Avonsbridge, with all its aristocracy 
of birth and condition, rarely produced. She would have 
been the same even if attired in hodden gray, but now 
she was well dressed in silks and furs. Dr. Grey had 
smiled at the modest trousseau, and soon settled every 
thing by saying, “ My wife must wear so and so.” In 
this rich clothing, which set off her fair large Saxon beau¬ 
ty to the utmost advantage, Christian quite dazzled the 
eyes of the two ladies who had so persistently called her 
“ that young woman.” Any person with eyes at all could 
see that, except for the difference in age, there was not 
the slightest incongruity between (to follow Barker’s 
pompous announcement) “ the master and Mrs. Grey.” 

Dr. Grey’s personal introduction was brief enough: 
“ Christian, these are my sisters. This is Maria, and this 
is Henrietta—Miss Gascoigne.” 

Christian bowed—a little statel}", perhaps—and then 


Christian’s MistaJce. 


43 


held oat her hand, which, after a hesitating glance at 
Miss Gascoigne, was accepted timidly by Miss Grey. “I 
couldn’t help it, my dear,” she afterward pleaded, in an¬ 
swer, to a severe scolding; “she quite took me by sur¬ 
prise.” 

But in Miss Gascoigne’s acuter and more worldly na¬ 
ture the surprise soon wore off, leaving a sharp conscious¬ 
ness of the beauty, grace, and dignity—formidable weap¬ 
ons in the hands of any woman, and especially of one 
so young as the master’s wife. Not that her youth was 
now very noticeable; to any one who had known Chris¬ 
tian before her marriage, she would have appeared greatly 
altered, as if some strange mental convulsion had passed 
over her—passed, and been subdued. In two weeks she 
had grown ten years older—was a matron, not a girl. 
Yet still she was herself. We often come to learn that 
change — which includes growth—is one of the most 
blessed laws of existence; but it is only weak natures 
who, in changing, lose their identity. If Dr. Grey saw, 
what any one who loved Christian could not fail to have 
seen, this remarkable change in her, he also saw deep 
enough into her nature neither to dread it nor deplore 
it. 

A few civil speeches having been interchanged about 
the weather, their journey, and so forth, the master, sud¬ 
denly looking round him, inquired, “Maria, where are 
the children ?” 

“I sent them to bed,” said Miss Gascoigne, with dig¬ 
nity. “It was impossible they could be kept up to this 
late hour. My poor sister never allowed it.” 

The color flashed violently over Dr. Grey’s face. With 


44 


ChristiarCa Mistake. 


the quick, resolute movement of a master in his ovrn 
house, he crossed the room and rang the bell. 

“Barker, inquire of nurse if the children are in bed. 
If not, say I wish them sent down to me; otherwise, I 
will come up to them immediately.” 

The answer to this message was awaited in most awk¬ 
ward silence. Even Miss Gascoigne seemed to feel that 
she had gone a little too far, and busied herself over the 
tea equipage; while Miss Grey, after one or two depre¬ 
cating looks at dear Arnold, began knitting nervously at 
her eternal socks—the only aunt-like duty which, in her 
meek laziness, she attempted to fulfill toward the children. 

For Christian, she sat by the fire, where her husband 
had placed her, absently taking in the externalities— 
warm, sombre, luxurious—of the house, which, in all hu¬ 
man probability, was now her home for life. For life! 
Did that overpowering sense of the inevitable—so mad¬ 
dening to some, so quieting to others—cause all small 
things to sink to their natural smallness, and all painful 
things to touch her less painfully than otherwise they 
would have been felt? It might have been. 

Barker returned with the information that all the chil¬ 
dren were fast asleep, but nurse said, “Of course Dr. 
Grey could come up if he pleased.” 

“Let me go too,” begged Christian. “Little Oliver 
will look so pretty in his bed.” 

Dr. Grey smiled. It was a rare thing to be a whole 
fortnight away from his children, and all the father’s 
heart was in his loving eyes. “Come away, then,” he 
said, all his cheerful looks returning. “Aunts, you will 
give us our tea when we return.” 


Christianas Mistake. 


45 


“Well, she does make herself at home!” cried Miss 
Gascoigne, indignantly, almost before the door had closed. 

Miss Grey knitted half a row with a perplexed air, 
and then, as if she had lighted upon a perfect solution 
of the difficulty, said brightly, “But then, you see, dear 
Genrietta, she is at home.” 

Home I Through that chilly gallery, preceded by Bar¬ 
ker and his wax-lights; stared upon by those grim por¬ 
traits, till more than once she started as if she had seen 
a ghost; up narrow, steep stone staircases, which might 
lead to a prison in a tower or a dormitory in a monas- 
terj^—any where except to ordinary, natural bedcham¬ 
bers. And when she reached them, what gloomy rooms 
they were, leading one out of another, up a step and 
down a step, with great beds thrit seemed only fit to lie 
in state in, after having turned one’s face to the wall and 
slipped out of weary life into the imagined freedom of 
the life beyond. Home 1 If that was home, Christian 
shivered. 

“Are you cold? Barker, send Mrs. Grey’s maid with 
her warm shawl. Every body feels the Lodge cold at 
first, but you will get used to it. Wait one minute,” for 
she was pressing eagerly to the gleam of light through 
the half-opened nursery door. “My wife!” 

“Yes, Dr. Grey.” 

As he put his hands on her shoulders, Christian looked 
into his eyes—right into them, for she was as tall as he. 
There was a sad quietness in her expression, but there 
was no shrinking from him, and no distrust. 

“ My wife need never be afraid of any thing or any 
body in this house.” 


46 


Christiaii^s Mistake, 


“I know that.” 

“And by-and*by, many things here which feel strange 
now will cease to feel so. Do you believe this ?” 

She smiled—a very feeble smile; but, at least, there 
was no pretense in it. 

“ One thing more. Whatever goes wrong, you will 
always come at once and tell it to me—to nobody in the 
world but me. Kemernber.” 

“I will.” 

Dr. Grey leaned forward and kissed his wife in his in. 
expressibly tender way, and then they went in together. 

Letitia and Arthur occupied two little closets leading 
out of the nursery, which seemed spacious enough, and 
ancient enough, to have been the dormitory of a score of 
monks, as very likely it was in the early days of Saint 
Bede’s. Phillis, sewing by her little table in the far cor¬ 
ner, kept guard over a large bed, where, curled up like 
a rose-bud, flushed and warm, lay that beautiful child 
whom Christian had thought of twenty times a day for 
the last fortnight 

“Well, Phillis, how are you and your little folk ?” said 
the master, in a pleasant whisper, as he crossed the nur¬ 
sery floor. He trod lightly, but either his step was too 
welcome to remain undiscovered, or the children’s sleep 
had been “ fox’s sleep,” for there arose a great outcry of 
“Papa! papa!” Oliver leaped up, half laughing, half 
screaming, and kicking his little bare legs with glee as 
his father took him in his arms; Arthur came running 
in, clad in the very airiest costume possible; and Letitia 
'appeared sedately a minute or two afterward, having 
stopped to put on her warm scarlet dressing-gown, and 


Christian's Mistake. 


47 


to take off her nightcap—under the most exciting cir¬ 
cumstances, Titia was such an exceedingly “ proper” 
child. 

What would the Avonsbridge dons have said—the 
solitary old fellows in combination-room—and, above all, 
what would the ghosts of the gloomy old monks have 
said, could they have seen the Master of Saint Bede’s, 
with all his children round him, hugging him, kissing 
him, chattering to him, while he hung over them in an 
absorption of enjoj^ment so deep that, for the moment, 
Christian was unnoticed? Bnt only for a moment; and 
he turned to where she stood, a little aloof, looking on,, 
half sadly, and yet with beaming, kindly ej^es. Her hus' 
band caught her hand and drew her nearer. 

“ Children, you remember this lady. She was very 
good to you one day lately. And now I want you to be 
very good to her.” 

“Oh yes,” cried Oliver, putting up his mouth at once 
for a kiss. “I like her very much. Who is she? 
What is her name ?” 

Children ask sometimes the simplest, yet the most ter¬ 
rible of questions. This one seemed literally impossible 
to be answered. Dr. Grey tried, and caught sight of his 
daughter’s face—the mouth pursed into that hard line 
which made her so exactly like her mother. Arthur, 
too, looked sullen and shy. Nobody spoke but little 
Oliver, who, in his innocent, childish way, pulling Chris¬ 
tian’s dress, repeated again, “ What is your name? What 
must Oily call you ?” 

Whatever she felt, her husband must have felt and 
known that this was the critical moment which, once let 


48 


Christiania Mistake. 


slip, might take years afterward to recall. He said, 
nervously enough, but with a firmness that showed he 
must already have well considered the subject, 

“Call her mamma.” 

There was no reply. Christian herself was somewhat 
startled, but conscious of a pleasant thrill at the sound 
of the new name, coming upon her so suddenly. Strange 
it was; and ah! how differently it came to her from the 
way it comes upon most women—gradually, deliciously, 
with long looking forward and tremulous hope and fear 
—still it was pleasant. Her maternal instinct was so 
strong that even imaginary motherhood seemed sweet. 
She bent forward to embrace the children, with tears in 
her eyes, when Letitia said, in a sharp, unchildlike voice, 

“People can’t have two mammas; and our mamma is 
buried in the New Cemetery. Aunts took us there yes¬ 
terday afternoon.” 

Had the little girl chosen the sharpest arrow in her 
aunts’ quiver—nay, had she been Miss Gascoigne herself, 
she could not have shot more keenly home. For the 
dart was barbed with truth —literal truth; which, how¬ 
ever sore it be, people in many difficult circumstances of 
life are obliged to face, to recognize, and abide by—to 
soften and subdue if they can—but woe betide them if, 
b}' any cowardly weakness or short-sighted selfishness, 
they are tempted to deny it as truth, or to overlook and 
make light of it. 

Painful as the position was—so painful that Dr. Grey 
was quite overcome by it, and maintained a total silence 
—Christian had yet the sense to see that it was a position 
inevitable, because it was true. Bitterly as the child had 


Christianas Mistake. 


49 


spoken—with the bitterness which she had been taught 
—yet she had only uttered a fact. In one sense, nobody 
could have two mothers; and Christian, almost with con¬ 
trition, thought of the poor dead woman whose children 
were now taught to call another woman by that sacred 
name. But the pang passed. Had she known the first 
Mrs. Grey, it might not have been so sharp; in any case, 
here was she herself—Dr. Grey’s wife and the natural 
guardian of his children. Hothing could alter that fact. 
Her lot was cast; her duty was clear before her; she 
must accept it and bear it, whatever it might be. Per¬ 
haps, for some reasons, it was the better for her that it was 
rather hard. 

She looked at her husband, saw how agitated he was, 
and there seemed to come into her mind a sort of inspi¬ 
ration. 

“ My child,” she said, trying to draw Letitia toward 
her, “you say truly. I am not your own mamma; no 
one ever could be that to you again; but I mean to be 
as like her as I can. I mean to love you and take care 
of you ; and you will love me too by-and-by. You can 
always talk to me as much as ever you like about your 
own mamma.” 

“ She doesn’t remember her one bit,” said Arthur, con 
temptuously. 

“ Oh, yes I do,” cried Letitia. “ She was very pretty, 
and always wore such beautiful gowns.” 

Again there was a silence, and then Christian said, 

“ I think, if the children do not dislike it, that as they 
always called Mrs. Grey ‘ mamma,’ they had better call 
me ‘mother.’ It is a pleasanter word than step-mother. 
C 


50 


Christianas Mistake. 


And I hope to make myself a real mother to them before 
very long.” 

“ I know you will,” answered Dr. Grey, in a smothered 
voice, as he set down little Oliver, and, kissing the chil¬ 
dren all round, bade nurse carry them off to bed once 
more — nurse, who, standing apart, with her great black 
eyes had already taken the measure of the new wife, of 
the children’s future, and of the chances of her own au¬ 
thority. Not the smallest portion of this decision origin¬ 
ated in the fact that Christian, wholly preoccupied as she 
was, had entered the nursery and quitted it without tak¬ 
ing any notice of her—Phillis—at all. 

Dr. Grey preceded his wife to a room, which, in the 
long labyrinth of apartments, seemed almost a quarter of 
a mile away. A large fire burnt on the old-fashioned 
hearth, and glimmered cheerily on the white toilet-table, 
crimson sofa, and bed. It was a room comfortable, ele* 
gant, pleasant, bright, thoroughly “ my lady’s chamber,’^ 
and which seemed from every nook to welcome its new 
owner with a smile. 

“ Oh, how pretty!” exclaimed Christian, involuntarily. 
She was not luxurious, yet she dearly loved pretty things; 
the more so, because she had never possessed them. Even 
now, though her heart was so moved and full, she was 
not insensible to the warmth imparted to it by mere ex¬ 
ternal pleasantnesses like these. 

“ I had the room newly furnished. I thought you 
would like it,” said Dr. Grey. 

“ I do like it. How very kind you are to me I” 

Kind—only kind! 

She looked round the room, and there, in one corner. 


Christian's Mistake. 


51 


just as if she bad never parted from them, were ad the 
old treasures of her maidenhood—desk, work-table, chair. 
She guessed all the secret. Once, perhaps, she might 
have burst into tears—heart-warm tears; now she only 
sighed. 

“ Oh, how good you are I” 

Her husband kissed her. Passively she took the ca¬ 
ress, and again she sighed. Dr. Grey looked at her earn* 
estly, then spoke in much agitation— 

Christian, tell me truly, were you hurt at what occur¬ 
red just now? I mean in the nursery.” 

“ No, not in the least. It was inevitable.” 

“ It was. Many things in life, quite inevitable, have 
yet to be met and borne, conquered even, if we can.” 

“Ay, if we can 1” 

And Christian looked up wistfully, almost entreatingly, 
to her husband, who, she now knew, and trembled at the 
knowledge, so solemn was the responsibility it brought, 
had loved her, and did love her, with a depth and passion 
such as a man like him never loves but one woman in all 
his life. 

“ Christian,” he began again, with an effort, “ I want to 
say something to you. Once in my life, when I was al¬ 
most as young as you are, I made a great mistake. There¬ 
fore I know that mistakes are not irretrievable. God 
teaches us sometimes by our very errors, leading us 
through them into light and truth. Only we must fol¬ 
low HiAu, and hold fast to the right, however difficult it 
may be We must not be disheartened: we must leave 
the past where it is, and go on to the future; do what we 
have to do, and suffer all we have to suffer. We must 


52 


Christian)s Mistake. 


meet things as they are, without perplexing ourselves 
about what they might have been; for, if we believe in 
an overruling Providence at all, there can be no such pos¬ 
sibility as ‘ might have been.’ ” 

“ That is true,” said Christian, musingly. She had nev¬ 
er known Dr. Grey speak like thia She wondered a lit¬ 
tle why he should do it now; and yet his words struck 
home. That “great mistake”—was it his first marriage? 
which, perhaps, had not been a happy one. At least, he 
never spoke of it, or of his children’s mother. And be¬ 
sides, it was difficult to believe that any man could have 
loved two women, as, Christian knew and felt. Dr. Grey 
now loved herself. 

But she asked him no questions; she felt not the slight¬ 
est curiosity about that, or about any thing. She was 
like a person in a state of moral catalepsy, to whom, for 
the time being, every feeling, pleasant or painful, seems 
dulled and dead. 

Dr. Grey said no more, and wdiat he had said was evi¬ 
dently with great effort. He appeared glad to go back 
into ordinary talk, showing her what he had done in the 
room to make it pretty and pleasant for his bride, and 
smiling over her childish delight to see again her maiden 
treasures, with which she had parted so mournfully. 

“You could not think I meant you really to part with 
them, Christian ?” said he. “ I fancied you had found out 
my harmless deceit long ago. But you are such an inno¬ 
cent baby, my child—as clear as crystal, and as true as 
steel.” 

“ Oh no, no!” she cried, as he went out of the room— 
a cry that was almost a sob, and might have called him 


ChriatiarCs Mistake. 


53 


back again—but he was gone, and the moment had pass¬ 
ed by. With it passed the slight quivering and softening 
which had been visible in her face, and she sunk again 
into the impassive calm which made Christian Grey so 
totally different from Christian Oakley. 

She rose up, took off her bonnet and shawl, and ar. 
ranged her hair, looking into the mirror with eyes that 
evidently saw nothing. Then she knelt before the fire, 
warming her ice-cold hands, on which the two-weeks’ fa¬ 
miliar ring seemed to shine with a fatal glitter. She kept 
moving it up and down with a nervous habit that she was 
trying vainly to conquer. 

“ A mistake,” she muttered. “ Perhaps my marriage, 
too, was a mistake, irretrievable, irremediable, as he may 
himself think now, only he is too kind to let me see it. 
What am I to do? Nothing. I can do nothing. ‘ Until 
death us do part.’ Do I wish for death—my death, of 
course—to come and part us?” 

She could not, even to herself, answer that question. 

“What was he saying — that God teaches us by our 
very errors—that there is no such thing as ‘ might have 
been ?’ He thinks so, and be is very wise, far wiser and 
better than I am. I might have loved him. Oh ! that I 
had only waited till I did really love him, instead of fan¬ 
cying it enough that he loved me. But I must not think. 
I have done with thinking. It would drive me out of 
my senses.” 

She started up, and stood gazing round the cheerful, 
bright, handsome room, where every luxury that a com¬ 
fortable income could give had been provided for her 
comfort, every little fancy and taste she had been remem- 


54 


Christian's Mistake. 


bered, with a tender mindfulness tliat would have made 
the heart of any newly-married wife, married for love, 
leap for joy, and look forward hopefully to that life which, 
with all its added cares, a good man’s affection can make 
so happy to the woman who is his chosen delight. But 
in Christian’s face was no happiness; only that white, 
wild, frightened look, which had come on her marriage 
day, and then settled down into what she now wore—the 
aspect of passive submission and endurance. 

“But I will do my duty. And he will do his, no fear 
of that! He is so good—far better than I. Yes, I shall 
do my duty.” 

lio'pe.^ and charity., these three ; hid the greatest of 
these is charity." 

There is a deeper meaning in this text than we at first 
see. Of “these three,” two concern ourselves; the third 
concerns others. AVhen faith and hope fail, as they do 
sometimes, we must try charity, which is love in action. 
We must speculate no more on our duty, but simply do 
it. When we have done it, however blindly, perhaps 
Heaven will show us the reason why. 

Christian went down stairs slowly and sadly, but quite 
calmly, to spend—and she did soend it, painlessly, if not 
pleasantly—the first evening in her own home. 


Christiaii's Mistake. 


%)b 


CHAPTER HI. 

When ye’re my ain gudewife, lassie. 

What’ll ye bring to me? 

A hantle o’ siller, a stockin’ o’ gowd ? 

‘I haena ae bawbee.’ 

“When ye are my ain gudewife, lassie, 

And sit at my fireside. 

Will the red and white meet in your face? 

‘Na! ye’ll no get a bonnie bride.’ 

** But gin ye’re my ain gudewife, lassie, 

Mine for gude an’ ill, 

Will ye bring me three things, lassie, 

My emj)ty hame to fill? 

“A temper sweet, a silent tongue, 

A heart baith warm and free ? 

Then I’ll marry ye the morn, lassie, 

And loe ye till I dee.” 

Avonsbridge lay still deep in February snow, for it 
was the severest winter which had been known there for 
many years. But any one who is acquainted with the 
place must allow that it never looks better or more beau¬ 
tiful than in a fierce winter frost—too fierce to melt the 
snow; when, in early morning, you may pass from col¬ 
lege to college, over quadrangles, courts, and gardens, 
and your own footsteps will be the only mark on the 
Vhite untrodden carpet, which lies glittering and daz- 


56 


Ghristimi^s Mistake. 


zling before you, pure and beautiful as even country 
snow. 

A little later in the morning you may meet a few gyps 
and bedmakers coming round chance corners, or descend¬ 
ing mysterious stairs; but if you go beyond inhabited 
precincts, down to the river-side, you are almost sure to 
be quite alone; you may stand, as Christian was accus¬ 
tomed to do, on any one of the bridges which connect 
the college buildings and college grounds, and see noth¬ 
ing but the little robin hopping about and impressing 
tiny footprints after yours in the path, then flying on to 
the branches of the nearest willow, which, heavy with a 
weight that is not leaves, but snow, dips silently into the 
silenced water. 

Or you may gaze, as Christian gazed every morning 
with continually new wonder, at the colors of the dawn 
brightening into sunrise, such as it looks on a winter’s 
morning—so beautiful that it seems an almost equal mar¬ 
vel that nobody should care to see it but yourself, ex¬ 
cept perhaps a solitary gownsman, a reading man, taking 
his usual constitutional, just as a matter of duty, but ap¬ 
parently not enjoying it the least in the world. 

Not enjoying it—this sharp fresh air, which braces 
every nerve, and invigorates every limb, causing all the 
senses to awake and share, as it were, this daily waking 
up of Nature, fresh as a rose? For what rosiness, in the 
brightest summer days, can compare with that kiss of the 
winter’s sun on the tree-tops, slowly creeping down their 
trunks and branches? And what blueness, even of a 
June sky, can equal that sea of space up aloft, across 
which, instead of shadows and stars, pink and lilac morn- 


Christianas MistaJce. 


57 


ing clouds are beginning to sail, clearer and brighter ev* 
ery minute? As they have sailed for the last four cen¬ 
turies over the pinnacle of that wondrous chapel, which 
has been described in guide-books, and pictured in en¬ 
gravings to an overwhelming extent, yet is still a build 
ing of whose beauty, within and without, the eye never 
tires. 

Christian stood watching it, for the hundredth time, 
with that vague sensation of pleasure which she felt at 
sight of all lovely things, whether of nature or art. That, 
at least, had never left her; she hoped it never might. 
It was something to hold by, though all the world slid 
by like a dream. Very dreamy her life felt still, though 
she had tried to make it more real and natural by resum¬ 
ing some of her old waj^s, and especially her morning 
walk, before the nine o’clock breakfast at the Lodge. 

She had made a faint protest in favor of an earlier 
hour than nine, and begged that the children might come 
down to breakfast; she craved so to have the little faces 
about the table. But Miss Gascoigne had said solemnly 
that “rny poor dear sister always breakfasted at nine, and 
never allowed her children to breakfast any where but in 
the nursery.” And that reference, which was made many 
times a day, invariably silenced Christian. 

She had now been married exactly four weeks, but it 
seemed like four years—four ages—as if she hardly re¬ 
membered the time when she was Christian Oakley. Yet 
now and then, in a dim sort of way, her old identity re¬ 
turned to her, as it does to those who, after a great crisis 
and uprooting of all life, submit, some in despair, some in 
humble patience, to the inevitable. 

C 2 


58 


Christian''s Mistake. 


This good time, this lucid interval, so to speak, usually 
came to her in the morning, when she took her early 
walk in the hxmiliar places; for to Christian familiarity 
only made things more dear. Already she w^as begin¬ 
ning to find her own nooks, and go about her own ways 
in those grim college rooms, which grew less ghostly now 
that she knew them better. Already she was getting a 
little used to her new home, her formal dignities, and her 
handsome clothes. It was a small thing to think of, per¬ 
haps, and yet, as she walked across the college quadran¬ 
gles, remembering how often she had shivered in her 
thin shawl along these very paths, the rich fur cloak felt 
soft and warnij like her husband’s goodness and unfailing 
love. 

As she stepped with her light, firm tread across the 
crinkling snow, she was—not unhapp}^ In her still 
dwelt that wellspring of healthy vitality, which always, 
under all circumstances, responds more or less to the in¬ 
fluence of the cheerful morning, the stainless childhood 
of the day. No wonder the “ reading man,” who had 
been so insensible to the picturesque in nature, turned 
his weary eyes to look after her, or that a bevy of fresh¬ 
men, rushing wildly out of chapel, with their surplices 
flying behind them like a flock of white—geese?—should 
have stopped to stare, a little more persistently than gen¬ 
tlemen ought, at the solitary lady, who was walking 
where she had a perfect right to walk, and at an hour 
when she could scarcely be suspected of promenading 
either to observe or to attract observation. But Chris¬ 
tian went right on, with perfect composure. She knew 
she was handsome, for she had been told so once; but 


Christian's Mistake, 


69 


the knowledge had afterward become only pain. Now, 
she was indifferent to her looks—at least as indifferent 
as any womanly woman ever can be, or ought to be. 
Still, it vexed her a little that these young men should 
presume to stare, and she was glad she was not walking 
in Saint Bede’s, and that they were not the men of her 
own college. 

For already she began to appropriate “ our college”— 
those old walls, under the shadow of which all her future 
life must pass. As she entered the narrow gateway of 
Saint Bede’s, and walked round its chilly cloisters to the 
Lodge door, she tried not to remember that she had ever 
thought of life as any thing different from this, or had 
ever planned an existence of boundless enjoyment, free¬ 
dom, and beauty, travel in foreign countries, seeing of 
mountains, cities, pictures, palaces, hearing of grand mu' 
sic, and mingling in brilliant society—a phantasmagoria 
of delight which had visited her fancy once—was it only 
her fancy ?—and vanished in a moment, as completely as 
the shadows projected on the wall. And here she was, 
the wife of the Master of Saint Bede’s. 

“Still I was right—I was right,” she said to herself, in 
the eagerness of a vain assurance. “And whether I was 
right or wrong matters not now. I must bear it—I must 
do my duty—and I will!” 

She stood still a minute to calm herself, then knocked 
at the Lodge gate. Barker opened it with that look of 
grieved superior surprise with which he always obeyed 
any novel order, or watched the doing of any deed which 
he considered lowered the dignity of himself and the col¬ 
lege. 


60 


(JhristiaiCs Mistake. 


“A beautiful morning, Barker!” 

“Is it, ma’am? So one of the bedmakers was a-say- 
ing;” as if to imply that bedmakers were the only wom¬ 
en whose business it was to investigate the beauties of 
the morning. 

Christian smiled: she knew she was not a favorite with 
him; indeed, no women were. He declared that no pet¬ 
ticoat ought ever to be seen within college boundaries. 
But he was a decent man, with an overwhelming rever' 
ence for Dr. Grey ; and so, though he was never too civil 
to herself, Christian felt a kindness for honest old Barker. 

She was a minute or two late; the master had already 
left his study, and was opening the large book of pray¬ 
ers. Nevertheless, ho looked up with a smile, as he al¬ 
ways did the instant his wife’s foot entered the door. 
But his sister appeared very serious, and Miss Gascoigne’s 
aspect was a perfect thundercloud, which broke into light¬ 
ning the instant prayers were over. 

“I must say, Mrs. Grey, you have a most extraordinary 
propensity for morning walks. I never did such a thing 
in all my life, nor Maria either.” 

“Probably not,” answered Christian, as she took her 
seat before the urn, which gave her the one home-like 
feeling she had at the Lodge. “Different people have 
different ways, and this has always been mine.” 

“ Why so?” 

“ Because it does me good, and harms nobody else,” 
said Christian, smiling. 

“ I doubt that, anyhow; you never will make me be¬ 
lieve it can be good for you to do a thing that nobody 
else does—to go wandering about streets and colleges 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


61 


when all respectable people are still in their beds. To 
say the least of it, it is so very peculiar.” 

The tone, more even than the words, made Christian 
flush up, but she did not reply. She had already learned 
not to reply to these sharp speeches of Miss Gascoigne’s, 
which, she noticed, fell on every body alike. “ What 
Miss Grey bears I suppose I can,” thought she to herself, 
when many times during the last two weeks she had been 
addressed in a manner which somewhat surprised her, as 
being a mode of speech more fitting from a school-mis¬ 
tress to a naughty school-girl than from a sister to a 
young wife, or, indeed, from any lady to any other lady 
—at least, according to her code of manners. 

“ You may talk as you like,” continued Miss Gas¬ 
coigne, glancing at the far end of the room, where the 
master was deeply busied in searching for a book, “ but I 
object to these morning walks; and I am certain Dr. Grey 
also would object, if he knew of them.” 

“ He does know.” 

“And does he approve? Impossible! Only think, 
Maria, if our poor dear sister had done such a thing!” 

“ Oh, hush, Henrietta!” cried Maria, appealing!}^, as Dr. 
Grey came back and sat himself placidly down at the 
breakfast-table, with his big book beside him. He had 
apparently not heard a single word. 

Yet he looked so good and sweet — yes, sweet is the 
only fitting word: a gentle simplicity like a child’s, which 
always seemed to hover round this bookish learned man 
—that the womenkind were silenced—as, by a most for¬ 
tunate instinct, women generally are in presence of their 
masculine relatives. They may quarrel enough among 


62 


Christianas Mistake, 


themselves, but they seem to feel that men either will not 
understand it or not endure it. That terrible habit of 
“talking over,” by which most women “ nurse their wrath 
and keep it warm,” is happily to men almost impossible. 

Breakfast was never a lively meal at the Lodge. Aft¬ 
er the first few days Dr. Grey took refuge in his big book, 
which for years Miss Gascoigne averred he had always 
kept beside him at mealtimes. Not good behavior in a 
paterfamilias, but the habit told its own tale. Very soon 
Christian neither marveled at nor blamed him. 

Never in all her life, not even during the few months 
that she lived with the Fergusons, had she sat at a family 
table; yet she had always had a favorite ideal of what a 
family table ought to be—bright, cheerful, a sort of do¬ 
mestic altar, before which every one cast down his or her 
offering, great or small, of pleasantness and peace; where 
for at least a brief space in the day all annoyances were 
laid aside, all stormy tempers hushed, all quarrels healed; 
every one being glad and content to sit down at the same 
board, and eat the same bread and salt, making it, wheth¬ 
er it were a fatted calf or a dinner of herbs, equally a joy¬ 
ful, almost sacramental meal. 

This was her ideal, poor girl! Now she wondered, as 
she had done many times since her coming “ home,” if 
all family tables were like this one—shadowed over with 
gloomy looks, frozen by silence, or broken by sharp 
speeches, which darted about like little arrows pointed 
with poison, or buzzed here and there like angry wasps, 
settling and stinging unawares, and making every one 
uncomfortable, not knowing who might be the next vic¬ 
tim stung. True, there was but one person to sting, for 


Christianas Mistake, 


63 


Miss Grey never said ill-natured things; but then she 
said ill-advised and mal-apropos things, and she had such 
an air of frightened dumbness, such a sad, deprecatory 
look, that she was sometimes quite as trying as Miss Gas¬ 
coigne, who spoke out. And oh, how she did speak! 
Christian, who had never known many women, and had 
never lived constantly with any, now for the first time 
learned what was meant by “a woman’s tongue.” 

At first it simply astonished her. How it was possible 
for one mortal member to run on so long without a pause, 
and in such ugly and uneasy paths—for the conversation 
was usually fault-finding of persons or things—passed her 
comprehension. Then she felt a little weary, and half 
wished that she, too, had a big book into which she could 
plunge herself, instead of having to sit there, politely smil¬ 
ing, saying “Yes,” and “No,” and “ Certainly.” At last 
she sank into a troubled silence; tried to listen as well as 
she could, and yet allow the other half of her mind to 
wander away into some restful place, if any such place 
could be found. The nearest approach to it was in that 
smooth, broad brow, and kindly eyes, which were now 
and then lifted up from the foot of the table, out of the 
mazes of the big book, at the secret of which Christian 
did not wonder now. 

And he had thus listened patiently to this mill-stream, 
or mill-clack, for three weary years! Perhaps for many 
another year before; but into that Christian would not 
allow her lightest thoughts to penetrate: the sacred veil 
of Death was over it all. 

“If I can only make him happy I” This was already 
beginning to be her prominent thought, and it warmed 


64 


Christian's Mistake, 


her heart that morning at this weary breakfast-table to 
hear him say, 

“ Christian, I don’t know how you manage it, but I 
think I never had such good tea in all my life as since 
you took it into your own hands and out of Barker’s.” 

“ No doubt she makes tea very well,” said Miss Gas¬ 
coigne, condescendingly, “ which is one good result of not 
having been used to a servant to do it for her. And she 
must have had such excellent practice at Mrs. Ferguson’s. 
I believe those sort of people always feed together—par¬ 
ents, children, apprentices, and all.” 

“ I assure you, not always,” said Christian, quietly. 
“At least I dined with the children alone.” 

“ Indeed! How very pleasant!” 

“ It was not unpleasant. They were good little things; 
and, as you know, I always prefer having children about 
me at mealtimes. I think it makes them little gentlemen 
and gentlewomen in a manner that nothing else will. If 
I had a house”—she stopped, and blushed deeply for hav¬ 
ing let old things—ah! they seemed so very old and far 
back now — make her forget the present. “I mean, I 
should wish in my house to have the children always ac¬ 
customed to come to the parents’ table as soon as they 
were old enough to handle a knife and fork.” 

“ Should you ?” said Dr. Grey, quite startling her, for 
she thought he had not been attending to the conversa¬ 
tion. “ Then we will have Titia and Atty to breakfast 
with us to-morrow.” 

Thus, without any fuss, the great revolution was made; 
so quickl}^, so completely, that even Miss Gascoigne was 
duinbfoundercd. She set down her teacup with a jerk; 


ChristiarCs Mistake, 


65 


her handsome face grew red with anger, but still she did 
not venture a word. She had not lived three years with 
Dr. Grey without finding out that when the master of the 
house did choose to exercise authority, he must be obey¬ 
ed. He very seldom interfered, especially as regarded 
the children ; like most simple-minded men, he was hum¬ 
ble about himself, and-left a great deal to his womenkind; 
but when he did interfere it was decisive. Even Miss 
Gascoigne felt instinctively that she might have wrangled 
and jangled for an hour, and at the end of it he would 
have said, almost as gently as he had said it now, “ The 
children will breakfast with us to-morrow.” 

Christian, too, was surprised, and something more. She 
had thought her husband so exceedingly quiet, that some¬ 
times her own high spirit winced a little at his passive¬ 
ness ; that is, she knew it would have done had she been 
her own natural self, and not in the strange, dreamy, bro¬ 
ken-down state, which seemed to take interest in nothing. 
Still, she felt some interest in seeing Dr. Grey appear, 
though but in a trivial thing, rather different from what 
she had at first supposed him. And when, after an in¬ 
terval of awful silence, during which Miss Gascoigne look¬ 
ed like a brooding hurricane, and Miss Grey frightened 
out of her life at what was next to happen, he rose and 
said, “ Now remember. Aunt Henrietta, you or my wife 
are to give orders to Phillis that the children come to us 
at lunchtime to-day,” Christian was conscious of a slight 
throb at heart. It was to see in her husband—the man 
to whom, whatever he was, she was tied and bound for 
life —that something without which no woman can whol¬ 
ly respect any man—the power of asserting and of main- 


66 


Christianas Mistake, 


taining authority; not that arbitrary, domineering rule 
which springs from the blind egotism of personal will, 
and which every other conscientious will, be it of wife, 
child, servant, or friend, instinctively resists, and ought to 
resist, but calm, steadfast, j ust, righteous authority. There 
is an old rhyme, 

“A spaniel, a woman, and a wahiut-tree. 

The more ye thrash ’em, the better they be 

which rhyme is not true. But there lies a foundation of 
truth under it, which is, that no woman ever perfectly 
loves a man who is not strong enough to make her also 
obey. 

As Dr. Grey went out of the room, and the minute fol¬ 
lowing, as with an after-thought, put in his head again, 
saying, “ Christian, I want you!” she followed him with a 
lighter heart than she had had for many weary days. 


Christian’s Mistake, 


67 


CHAPTER IV. 

** The little griefs—the petty wounds— 

The stabs of daily care— 

‘Crackling of thorns beneath the pot,’ 

As life’s fire burns—now cold, now hot— 

How hard they are to bear I 

••But on the fire burns, clear and still; 

The cankering sorrow dies; 

The small wounds heal; the clouds are rent, 

And through this shattered mortal tent 
Shine down the eternal skies.” 

“Dr. Grey, as to-day is your ‘at home’—at least, as 
much of an ‘ at home’ as is possible under the circum¬ 
stances—I wished to inquire, once for all, what is to be 
done about the Fergusons?” 

“About whom? I beg pardon, Henrietta, but what 
were you talking about?” 

Which, as she had been talking “even on” all break¬ 
fast-time, either to or at the little circle, including Letitia 
and Arthur, was not an unnecessary question. 

“I referred to your wife’s friends and late employers, 
the Fergusons, of High Street. As she was married from 
their house, and as, of course, they will only be too glad 
to keep up her acquaintance, they will doubtless appear 
to-day. In that case, much as we should regret it, your 
sister and myself must decline being present. We can 


68 


Christian's Mistake, 


not possibly admit such people into our society. Isn’t it 
so—eh, Maria?” 

Maria, thus sharply appealed to, answered with her 
usual monosyllable. 

Dr. Grey looked at his wife in a puzzled, absent way. 
He was very absent—there was no doubt of it—and some¬ 
times seemed as shut up in himself as if he had lived a 
bachelor all his life. Besides, he did not readily take in 
the small wrongs—petty offenses—which make half the 
misery of domestic life, and are equally contemptible in 
the offender and the offended. There was something pa¬ 
thetically innocent in the way he said, 

“I really do not quite understand. Christian, what 
does it all mean ?” 

“It means,” said Christian, trying hard to restrain an 
indignant answer, “ that Miss Gascoigne is giving herself 
a great deal of needless trouble about a thing which will 
never happen. My friends, the Fergusons, may call to¬ 
day—I did not invite them, though I shall certainly not 
shut the door upon them—but they have no intention 
whatever of being on visiting terms at the Lodge, nor 
have I of asking them.” 

“I am glad to hear it,” said Miss Gascoigne—“glad to 
see that you have so much good taste and proper feeling, 
and that all my exertions in bringing you—as I hope to 
do to-day—for the first time into our society will not be 
thrown away.” 

Christian was not a very proud woman—that is, her 
pride lay too deep below the surface to be easily ruffled, 
but she could not bear this. 

“If by ‘our society’ you mean my husband’s friends, 


Christian's Mistake, 


69 


to whom he is to introduce me, I shall be most happy 
always to welcome them to his house; but if you imply 
that I am to exclude my own—honest, worthy, honorable 
people, uneducated though they may be—I must alto¬ 
gether decline agreeing with you. I shall do no such 
thing.” 

“ What shall you do, then ?” said Miss Gascoigne, after 
a slight pause; for she did not expect such resistance 
from the young, pale, passive creature, about whom, for 
the last few days, she had rather changed her mind, and 
treated with a patronizing consideration. For Aunt Hen¬ 
rietta liked to patronize; it pleased her egotism; besides, 
she was shrewd enough to see that an elegant, handsome 
girl, married to the Master of Saint Bede’s, was sure soon 
to be taken up by somebody ; better, perhaps, by her own 
connections than by strangers. So—more blandly than 
might have been expected—she asked, “ What shall you 
do?” 

“What seems to me—as I think it will to Dr. Grey”—• 
with a timid glance at him, and a wish she had found 
courage to speak to him first on this matter, “the only 
right thing I can do. Not to drag my friends into socie¬ 
ty where they would not feel at home, and which would 
only look down upon them, but to make them under¬ 
stand clearly that I—and my husband — do not look 
down upon them; that we respect them, and remember 
their kindness. We may not ask Mr. Ferguson to din¬ 
ner—he would find little to say to University dons; and 
as for his wife”—she could not forbear a secret smile at 
the thought of the poor dear woman, with her voluble 
affectionateness and her gowns of all colors, beside the 


70 


Christian'*s Mistake, 


stately, frigid, perfectly-dressed, and unexceptionably- 
mannered Miss Gascoigne—“ whether or not Mrs. Fer¬ 
guson is invited to the series of parties that you are plan¬ 
ning, I shall go and see her, and she shall come to see 
me, as often as ever I please.” 

This speech, which began steadily enough, ended with 
a shaky voice and flashing eye, which, the moment it met 
Dr. Grey’s, gravely watching her, sank immediately. 

“That is,” she added gently, “if my husband has no 
objection.” 

“ None,” he said, but drew ink and paper to him, and 
sat down to write a note, which he afterward handed over 
to Christian. Then addressing his sister-in-law, “I have 
invited Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson to dine with us—just our¬ 
selves, as you and Maria will be out—at six o’clock to¬ 
morrow. And oh!”—with a weary look, as if he were 
not so insensible to this petty domestic martyrdom as 
people imagined—“do, Henrietta, let us have a little 
peace.” 

It was in vain. Even Dr. Grey’s influence could not 
heal the wounded egotism of this unfortunate lady. 

“ Peace! Do you mean to say that it is I who make 
dis-peace? But if you, having known what a good, obe¬ 
dient wife really is, can submit to such unwarrantable 
dictation ; and if I, or Maria, your own sister (Maria, why 
don’t you speak?), can not offer one word of advice to 
a young person, who, as might be expected, is entirely 
ignorant of the usages of society—is, in fact, a perfect 
child—” 

“ She is my wife!” f?aid Dr. Grey, so suddenly and de¬ 
cisively that even Christian, who had been reading the 


Christian's Mistake, 


71 


note with a grateful heart for kindness shown for her 
sake, involuntarily started. 

My wife. He said only those two words, yet somehow 
they brought a tear in her eye. The sense of protection, 
so new and strange, was also pleasant. She could have 
fought her own battles—at least she could once—without 
bringing him into them; but when he stood there, with 
his hand on her shoulder, simply saying those words, 
which implied, or ought to imply, every thing that man 
is to woman, and every thing that woman needs, she be¬ 
came no longer warlike and indignant, but humble, pass¬ 
ive, and content. 

And long after Dr. Grey was gone away, with bis big 
book under his arm, and Miss Gascoigne, in unutterable 
wrath and scorn, had turned from her and began talking 
volubly to poor Aunt Maria at the fireside, the feeling 
of content remained. 

There was a long pause, during which the two chil¬ 
dren, Letitia and Arthur, who had listened with open 
eyes and ears to what was passing among their elders, 
now, forgetting it all, crept away for their usual half hour 
of after-breakfast play in the oriel window of the dining¬ 
room. 

Christian also took her work, and began thinking of 
other things. She neither wished to fight or be fought 
for, particularly in such a petty domestic war. One of 
the many advantages among the many disadvantages of 
a girlhood almost entirely removed from the society of 
women was that it had saved her from women’s small¬ 
nesses. Besides, her nature itself wns large, like her per¬ 
son—large, and bounteous, and sweet; it refused to take 


72 


Christian"*s Mistake. 


in those petty motives which disturb petty minds. Life 
to her was a grand romantic drama,—perhaps, alasi a 
tragedy—but it never could be made into a genteel com¬ 
edy, with childish intrigues, Liliputian battles, tempests 
in teapots, or thunders made upon kettle-drums. 

Thus, concluding the temporary storm was over, and 
almost forgetting it at the half-hour’s end, she called 
cheerfully to the children to get ready for a walk with 
her this sunshiny morning. 

Miss Gascoigne rose, her black eyes flashing: “Chil¬ 
dren, you will not leave the house. You will walk with 
nobody but your own proper nurse. It was your poor 
mamma’s custom, and, though she is dead, her wishes 
shall be carried out, at least so long as I am alive.” 

Christian stood utterly amazed. Her intention had 
been so harmless; she had thought the walk good for 
the children, and perhaps good for herself to have their 
company. She had meant to take them out with her 
the first available day, and begin a regular series of ram¬ 
bles, which perhaps might win their little hearts toward 
her, for they still kept aloof and shy; and now all her 
pleasant plans were set aside. 

And there the children stood, half frightened, half 
amused, watching the conflict of authority between their 
elders. One thing was clear. There must be no bring¬ 
ing them into the contest. Christian saw that, and with 
a strong effort of self-control she said to Miss Gascoigne, 

“ I think, before we discuss this matter, the children 
had better leave the room. Go, Atty and Titia; your 
aunts and I will send word to the nursery by-and-by.” 

The children went obediently, though Christian heard 


Christian'^ Mistake, 


73 


Arthur whisper to his sister something about “such a 
jolly row.” But there was none. 

Miss Gascoigne burst forth into a perfect torrent of 
words, directed not to Mrs. Grey, but at her, involving 
such insinuations, such accusations, that Christian, who 
had never been used to this kind of thing, stood literally 
astounded. 

She answered not a word; she could not trust herself 
to speak. She had meant so kindly; was so innocent 
of any feeling save a wish to be good and motherly to 
these motherless children. Besides, she had such an in¬ 
tense craving for their affection, and even their compan¬ 
ionship, for there were times when her life felt withering 
up within her—chilled to death by the gloom of the dull 
home, with its daily round of solemn formalities. If she 
had spoken, she would have burst into tears. To save 
herself from this, she rose and left the parlor. 

It might have been weak, unworthy a woman of spirit; 
but Christian was, in one sense—not Miss Gascoigne’s— 
still a very child. And most childlike in their passion¬ 
ate bitterness, their keen sense of injustice, were the tears 
she shed in her own room, alone. For she did not go to 
Dr. Grey ; why should she? Her complaints could only 
wound him ; and somehow she scorned to complain. She 
had not been a governess for two years without learning 
that authority propped up by extraneous power is near¬ 
ly useless, and that, between near connections, love com¬ 
manded, not won, generally results in something very 
like hatred. 

Besides, was there not some truth in what the aunt 
said? Had she — the second v^dfe — authority over the 

D 


74 


Christian's Mistake. 


first Mrs. Grey’s children ? Would it not be better to let 
them alone, for good or for evil, and trouble herself about 
their welfare no more? But just that minute Oliver’s 
little feet went pattering outside the door—Oliver, who, 
still a nursery pet, was freer than the others, and who 
had already learned where to come of forenoons for bis¬ 
cuits to eat or toys to be mended. There was now a one¬ 
wheeled cart and a three-legged horse requiring Chris¬ 
tian’s tenderest attention; and as she sat down on the 
crimson sofa, and busied herself over them, with the little 
eager face creeping close to hers, and the little fat arm 
steadying itself round her neck, her wet eyes soon grew 
dry and bright, and her heart less sore, less hopeless. 
The small necessities of the present, which make chil¬ 
dren’s company so soothing, quieted her now; and by 
the time she had watched the little fellow run away, 
dragging his cart and horse down the oak floor, shouting 
“Gee-ho!” and turning round often to laugh at her, 
Christian felt that life looked less blank and dreary than 
it had done an hour ago. 

Still, when she had dressed herself in the violet silk 
and Honiton lace which Miss Gascoigne had informed her 
were necessarj^—oh, how she had been tormented about 
the etiquette of this “at home!”—the cloud darkened 
over her again. What should she do or say to these 
strange people?—the worse, that they were not quite 
strangers—that she knew them by report or by sight— 
and, alack 1 from her father’s ill name, they knew her only 
too well. How they would talk her over and criticise 
her, in that small way in which women do criticise one 
another, and which she now, for the first time in her life, 


Christian's Mistahe. 


75 


had experienced. Was it the habit of all University la¬ 
dies? If so, how would she endure a whole lifetime of 
that trivial ceremoniousness in outside things, those small 
backbitings and fault-findings, such as the two aunts in¬ 
dulged in ? It was worse, far worse, than poor Mrs. Fer¬ 
guson’s stream of foolish maternalities—vulgar, but warm 
and kindly, and never ill-natured; and oh! ten times 
worse than any thing Christian had known in her girl¬ 
hood, which had been forlorn indeed,but free; when she 
had followed through necessity her nomadic father, who 
had, at any rate, left her alone, to form her own mind and 
character as she best could. Of man’s selfishness and 
badness she knew enough; but of women’s small silli¬ 
nesses, narrow formalities, and petty unkindnesses, she 
was utterly ignorant till now. 

“ How shall I bear them ? Let Dr. Grey be ever so 
good to me, still, how shall I bear them ?” She sighed, 
she almost sobbed, and pressed her cheek wearily against 
the frosty pane, for she was sitting in a window-seat on 
the staircase, lingering till the last possible instant before 
the hour when Miss Gascoigne had said she ought to be 
in her place in the drawing-room. 

“My dear, are you not afraid of catching cold?” said 
the hesitating voice of Miss Grey. “ Besides, will not the 
servants think it rather odd, your sitting here on the 
staircase? Bless me, my dear, were you crying?” 

“ Uo,” answered Christian, energetically, “ no!” and 
then belied her truthfulness by bursting immediately into 
tears. 

Miss Grey was melted at once. “ There, now, my dear, 
take my smelling-bottle; you will be better soon; it is 


76 


Christian's Mistake. 


only a little over-excitement. But, indeed, you need not 
mind; our friends—that is, Henrietta’s—for you know I 
seldom visit—are all very nice people, and they will pay 
every respect to my brother’s wife. Do not be frighten 
ed at them.” 

“ I was not frightened,” replied Mrs. Grrey, more in¬ 
clined to smile than to be offended at this earnest condo¬ 
lence. “ What troubled me was quite another thing.” 

“Henrietta, perhaps?” with an uneasy glance up the 
staircase. “But, my dear, you must not mind Henrietta; 
she means well. You don’t know how busy she has been 
all the morning, arranging every thing. ‘ For,’ says she 
to me, ‘ since your brother has married again, we must 
make the best of it, and introduce his wife into society, 
and be very kind to her.’ And I am sure I hope we 
are.” 

“Thank you,” said Christian, somewhat haughtily, till 
touched by the mild deprecation of that foolish, gentle 
face, so gentle as half to atone for its foolishness. 

“You see, my dear, your marriage was much worse to 
her than to me, because Mrs. Grey was her own sister, 
while Arnold is my brother. And all I w^ant in the wide 
world is to see my brother happy. I hope it isn’t wrong 
of me, but I don’t think quite as dear Henrietta does. I 
always felt that dear Arnold might marry any body he 
pleased, and I should be sure to love her if only she made 
him happy. * But, hush I I hear somebody coming.” 

And the poor little lady composed herself into some 
pretense of indifference when Christian rose from the win¬ 
dow-sill, and stood like a queen—or rather like what she 
tried to say to herself, so as to keep up her matronly dig- 


Christian’'s Mistake. 


n 

nity, whenever passionate, girlish grief or anger threaten¬ 
ed to break it down, “ like Dr. Grey’s wife.” 

Miss Gascoigne stopped benignly, much to Christian’s 
surprise, for she did not guess what a wonderful influence 
clothes have in calming down ill tempers. And Miss 
Gascoigne was beautifully dressed — quite perfect from 
top to toe; and she was such a handsome woman still, 
that it was quite a pleasure to look at her, as she very 
well knew. She had come direct from her mirror, and 
was complacent accordingly. Also, she felt that domes¬ 
tic decorum must be preserved on the “ at home” day. 

“ That is a very pretty dress you have on; I suppose 
Dr. Grey bought it in London ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did he choose it likewise?” 

“I believe so.” 

“My sister always chose her own dresses; but then 
she paid for them too. She had a little income of her 
own, which is a very good thing for a wife to have.” 

“ A very good thing.” ’ 

“ Indeed, Mrs. Grey, I scarcely expected you to think 
so.” 

“ I think,” said Christian, firmly, though for the mo¬ 
ment the silk gown seemed to burn her arms, and the 
pearl brooch and lace collar to weigh like lead on her 
bosom, “ I think that in any true marriage it does not 
signify one jot whether the husband or the wife has the 
money. Shall we go down stairs?” 

There was time for the hot cheek to cool and the am 
grv heart to be stilled a little before the visitors came. 

Miss Gascoigne had truly remarked that the master’s 


78 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


wife was “ unaccustomed to society”—that society which 
forms the staple of all provincial towns, well dressed, 
well mannered, well informed. But it seemed to Chris 
tian as if these ladies, though thoroughly ladylike in 
manner, which was very grateful to her innate sense of 
refinement, all dressed after one fashion, and talked most¬ 
ly about the same things. To her, ungifted with the 
blessed faculty of small talk, the conversation appeared 
somewhat frivolous, unreal, and uninteresting. She hard¬ 
ly knew what to say or how to say it, yet was painfully 
conscious that her every word and every look were be¬ 
ing sharply criticised, either in the character of Edward 
Oakley’s daughter or Dr. Grey’s wife. 

“At least he shall not be ashamed of me,” was the 
thought that kept her up through both weariness and 
resentment, and she found herself involuntarily looking 
toward the door every time it opened. Would he come 
in ? At least his presence would bring her that sense of 
relief and protection which she had never failed to feel 
from the first hour she knew Dr. Arnold Grey. 

He did come in, though not immediately, and passing 
her with a smile, which doubtless furnished the text for 
a whole week’s gossip in Avonsbridge, went over to talk 
to a group of ladies belonging to Saint Bede’s. 

And now for the first time Christian saw what her 
husband was “in society.” 

Next to a bad man or a fool, of all things most detest¬ 
able is “ a man of society a brilliant, showy person, 
who gathers round him a knot of listeners, to whom his 
one object is to exhibit himself. But it is no small ad¬ 
vantage for a man, even a clever or learned man, to feel 


Christianas Mistake. 


79 


and appear at home in any company; to be neither ec¬ 
centric, nor proud, nor shy; to have a pleasant word or 
smile for every body; both to seem and to be occupied 
with other people instead of with himself, and with what 
other people are thinking about him; in short, a frank, 
kindly, natural gentleman, so sure both of his position 
and himself that he takes no trouble in the assertion of 
either, but simply devotes himself to making all about 
him as comfortable and happy as he can. And this was 
Dr. Arnold Grey. 

lie talked little, and not brilliantly, but he knew how 
to make other people talk. By some subtle, fine essence 
in his own nature, he seemed to extract the best aroma 
from every other; and better than most conversation was 
it to look at his kindly, earnest, listening face, as, in the 
pauses of politeness, Christian did look more than once; 
and a thrill shot through her, the consciousness, dear to 
every woman, of being proud of her husband. Ay, 
whether she loved him or not, she was certainly proud 
of him. 

In all good hearts, love’s root is in goodness. Deeper 
than even love itself is that ideal sense of being satisfied 
—satisfied in all one’s moral nature, in the cravings of 
one’s soul after what seems nearest perfection. And 
though in many cases poor human hearts are so weak, 
or strong—which is it?—that we cling to imperfectness, 
and love it simply because we love it with a sort of paS' 
sionate pity, ever hoping to have its longings realized, still 
this kind of love is not the love which exalts, strengthens, 
glorifies. Sooner or later it must die the death. It had 
no root, and it withers away ; whereas, let there be a 


80 


Christian'^s Mistake, 


root and ever such a small budding of leaves, sometimes 
merciful nature makes it grow. 

Christian looked at her husband many times, stealth¬ 
ily, whenever he did not notice her. She liked to look 
at him. She liked to judge his face, not with the expres¬ 
sion it wore toward hei'self; t/ial she knew well—alas! 
too well; but as it was when turned toward other peo¬ 
ple, interested in them and in the ordinary duties of life, 
which sometimes, when absorbed in a passionate love, a 
man lets slip for the time. Now she saw him as he was 
in reality, the head of his family, the master of his col¬ 
lege, the centre of a circle of friends; doing his work in 
the world as a man ought to do it, and as a woman dear¬ 
ly loves to see him do it. Christian’s eye brightened, 
and a faint warmth seemed creeping into her dull, dead¬ 
ened heart. 

While she was thinking thus, and wondering if it were 
real, her heart suddenly stopped still. 

It was only at the sound of a name, repeated in idle 
conversation by two ladies behind her. 

“Edwin Uniacke! Yes, it is quite true. My hus¬ 
band was speaking of it only this morning. He is Sir 
Edwin Uniacke now, with a large fortune besides.” 

“ He didn’t deserve it. If ever there was an utter 
scapegrace, it was he. He broke his poor mother’s 
heart; she died during that affair. The dean must have 
known all about it?” 

“Yes, but he and the master kept it very much to 
themselves. My husband hates talking; and as for Dr. 
Grey—” 

“The dean paid me a long visit this morning, Mrs. 


Christian's 3ristaRe. 


81 


Brereton,” suddenly interrupted Dr. Grey. “We were 
congratulating ourselves on our prospects. We think 
there are one or two men who will do Saint Bede’s great 
credit next year.'’ 

“ That is well But my husband says it will be long 
before we get a man like one whom I was just speaking 
of—Mr. Uniacke—Sir Edwin he is now. He has suc¬ 
ceeded to the baronetcy. Of course you have heard of 
this?” 

“I have,” briefly answered Dr. Grey. 

And the dean’s wife, who had all the love of talking 
which the dean had not, mingled with a little nettled 
sense of balked curiosity, then turned to Mrs. Grey. 

“You must have heard of that young man, and the 
scandal about him; it was only a year ago that he was 
rusticated. Such a pity ! He was a most clever fellow 
—good at every thing. And quite a genius for music. 
To hear him sing and play was delightful! And yet he 
was such a scamp—a downright villain.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Brereton,” said Dr. Grey, “ nobody is 
quite a villain at twenty. And if he were, don’t you 
think that the less we talk about villains the better?” 

So the conversation dropped—dropped as things do 
drop every day, under the smooth surface of society, 
which handles so lightly edged tools, and treads so gay- 
ly upon bomb-shells, with the fusee just taken out in 
time. 

“I am very tired,” said Mrs. Grey, while Dr. Grey was 
seeing the last of the visitors to their carriage. “I think 
I will go at once to my own room.” 

“ Do so,” replied Aunt Maria. “ Indeed, it has been 
D 2 


82 


Christianas Mistake. 


a very fatiguing day for you, and for us all. Go, and 1 
will tell Arnold you are dressing. It only wants half an 
hour to dinner.” 

“I will be ready.” 

And so she was. But for twenty out of the thirty 
minutes she had lain motionless on her bed, almost like 
a dead figure, as passive and as white. Then she rose, 
dressed herself, and went down to the formal meal, and 
to the sombre, safe routine of her present existence, as it 
would flow on — and she prayed with all her heart it 
might—until she died. 


Chr istiaii^s Mistake, 


83 


CHAPTER V. 

“He stands a-sudden at the door, 

And no one hears his soundless tread. 

And no one sees his veiled head, 

Or silent hand, put forth so sure, 

“To grasp and snatch from mortal sight; 

Or else benignly turn away, 

And let us live our little day, 

And tremble back into the light: 

“But, though thus awful to our eyes. 

He is an angel in disguise.” 

Every human being, and certainly every woman, has, 
among the various ideals of happiness, good to make, if 
never to enjoy, one special ideal—that great necessity of 
every tender heart—Home. 

Christian had made hers, built her castle in Spain, and 
furnished and adorned it from basement to battlement, 
even when she was a girl of fourteen. Sitting night aft¬ 
er night alone, listening for the father’s footstep, and then 
trembling when she heard it, or hidden away up in her 
own bedroom, her sole refuge from the orgies that took 
place below, where the sound of music, exquisite music, 
went up like the cry of an angel imprisoned in a den of 
brutes, the girl had imagined it all. And through every 
vicissitude, hidden clo.ser for its utter contrast to all the 
associations and experience of her daily life, Christiai 


84 


Christian''s Mistake. 


Oakley had kept in her heart its innocent, womanly idea\ 
of home. 

Now she had the reality. And what was it? 

Externally it looked very bright. Peeping into that 
warm, crimson-tinted dining-room at the hour between 
dinner and tea, when the whole family at the Lodge were 
sure to be assembled there, any body would say what a 
happy family it was, and what a pleasant picture it made. 
Father and mother at either end of the table; children on 
both sides of it; and the two elderly aunts seated com¬ 
fortably in their two arm-chairs at the fireside, one knit¬ 
ting— q. e. cZ., sleeping, the other— 

No. Miss Grascoigne never slept. Her sharp, 

“Flaw-seeking eyes, like needles’ points,” 

were always open, and more especially when the circle 
consisted, as now, of her brother-in-law, his children, and 
his new wife. Doubtless she considered watchfulness her 
duty. Indeed, as she explained over and over again to 
Aunt Maria, the principal reason which made her consent 
still to remain at the Lodge, instead-of returning to her 
own pretty cottage at Avonside, was to overlook and 
guard the interests of “those poor motherless children.” 

Now it happened, unfortunately for Miss Gascoigne, 
that if Christian had one bright spot in the future of her 
married life to which she had looked forward earnestly, 
longingly, it was those children — how she would take 
care of them ; fill up her weary days with them; love 
them, and be loved by them; in short, find in them the 
full satisfaction of her motherly heart — that heart in 
which she then thought there were no instincts or emo- 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


85 


dons left except the motherly. How she yearned and 
craved for this, God and her own soul only knew. 

Yet, how she hardly knew, but so it was, none of these 
hopes had been fulfilled. She saw almost nothing of the 
children save during the one hour after dinner, when she 
sat silently watching them, one on each side of their fa¬ 
ther, and one on his knee, all so happy together. Dr. 
Grey always looked happy when he was with his little 
folk. And they, their very fiiults faded off into sweet¬ 
nesses when they came within the atmosphere of that 
good, loving, fatherly nature, for love makes love, and 
goodness creates goodness. Titia lost her prim conceit, 
Atty his selfish roughness, and Oliver became a peifect 
little angel of a child for at least one hour a day—the 
hour they spent with their father. 

It was a pretty picture. Christian, sitting apart, with 
the gulf of shining mahogany between, bridged it often 
with her wistful eyes, but she never said a word. 

She was not jealous, not in the slightest degree; for 
hers was the large nature which, deeply recognizing oth¬ 
ers’ rights, and satisfied with its own, is incapable of any 
of the lower forms of jealousy; but she was sad. The 
luxurious aimlessness of her present life was a little heavy 
to the once poor, active, hard-working young governess, 
who had never known an idle or even a restful hour. 
The rest was sweet—oh, how sweet! but the idleness was 
difficult to bear. She had tried sometimes in the long 
mornings, when the master was shut up in his study, to 
get the children with her, and teach them a little; but 
Miss Gascoigne had replied that “ my late sister” did not 
approve of any but paid governesses, and that it was im' 


86 


Christian's Mistake. 


possible the wife of the Master of St. Bede’s could go 
trapesing about like a nursemaid,” taking walks with 
the children. Their own mamma never thought of do¬ 
ing such a thing. 

And this reference to her predecessor, given about 
twenty times a day, always effectually silenced Christian, 
though it did not silence—it could not—the cry of her 
heart to be of some use to somebody; to have some 
young, fresh, happy creatures to love and be loved by, 
even though they were another woman’s children. 

So she sat this evening and many evenings, quiet but 
sad-eyed; and it was a relief when Barker entered with 
the tea-tray, and three or four letters for Mrs. Grey. 

“ How very odd! Who can be writing to me ? I 
know nobody!” 

At which simple speech Miss Gascoigne looked dag¬ 
gers, and, the minute Barker was gone, spoke them too. 

“I must beg you, Mrs. Grey, if only for our sakes, to 
be a little more circumspect. How could you let out be¬ 
fore Barker that you ‘ knew nobody ?’ ” 

“ It is the truth — why should I not say it ?” was all 
Christian answered, as she opened her letters, almost the 
lirst which had come to her still unfamiliar name. They 
are all invitations. Oh dear! what shall I do?” 

Dr. Grey looked up at the exclamation ; he never seem¬ 
ed to hear much of what passed around him except when 
his wife spoke, and then some slight movement often 
showed that, though a silent, he was not an unobservant 
man. 

“Invitations!” cried Miss Gascoigne; “the very thing 
I was expecting. And to the best houses in Avons- 


Christian's Mistake. 


87 


Jndge, too. This is the result of jour At home. I feel 
quite pleased at having so successfully introduced you 
into good society.” 

“Thank you,” said Christian, half amused, half—well, 
it was not worth while being annoyed at such a small 
thing. She only looked across at her husband to see 
iiow he felt on the matter. 

“I think,” said the master, with a comical twinkling 
in his eye, “ that no society is half so good or so pleasant 
as our own.” 

Christian looked puzzled a minute, but afterward 
smiled gratefully. 

“We may decline it, then?” 

“Should you like it best?” 

“I should, indeed.” For, somehow, though she did 
not shrink from her new life—that strange, perplexing 
life for which her sense of duty was making her every 
day more strong—she did shrink from the outward 
shows of it. To be stared at by cold, sharp, Avons- 
bridge eyes, or pointed at as “ the governess” whom Dr. 
Grey had married—worse, perhaps, as Edward Oakley’s 
daughter, the Edward Oakley whose failings every body 
knew—“Yes,” she added, quickly, “T would much rath¬ 
er decline.” 

“Decline! when I have taken so much trouble— 
bought a new dress expressly for these parties 1 They 
are bridal parties, Mrs. Grey, given for you, meant to 
welcome you into society. Society always does it, ex¬ 
cept when the marriage is one to be ashamed of.” 

Christian started; the hot flush which now twenty 
times a day was beginning to burn in her once pale 


88 


ChristixxrCs Mistake. 


cheek, burnt there now; but she restrained herself, for 
the children sat there—Letitia, preternaturally sharp, 
and noticing every thing; Arthur, who rarely spoke ex¬ 
cept to say something rude; and also the children’s fa 
then 

Christian sought his eyes; she was convinced he had 
heard and understood every word. But still it had not 
affected him, except to a wistful watchfulness of herself, 
so tender that her indignation sank down. 

“Shall I wait till to-rnorrow before I write? Per¬ 
haps, Dr. Grrey, after all, it would be as well for us to ac¬ 
cept these invitations?” 

“ Perhaps,” said he, and said no more. There was no 
need. Whether or not they loved, without doubt the 
husband and wife perfectly understood one another. So 
next morning, after a brief consultation with Dr. Grey, 
Christian sat down and wrote to those grand University 
ladies, who, though not an atom better than herself, 
would, she knew well—and smiled, half amused at the 
knowledge—a year ago have scarcely recognized her 
existence, that Mrs. Grey “ accepted with pleasure” their 
kind invitations. 

When the day came round she dressed herself, for the 
first time in her whole life, in proper evening costume— 
white silk, white lace, ornaments, and flowers. Not too 
youthful a toilet, for she had no wish to appear young 
now, but still bridal—a “bride adorned with her jewels,” 
only these were but few. She was fastening her one 
opal brooch, and looking into the mirror, half sad, half 
wondering to see herself so fair, when Dr. Grey entered. 

He had a jeweler’s case in his hand. Awkwardly, 


Christian s Mistake. 


89 


even nervously, he fastened a cross round her neck, and 
put a bracelet on her arm. Both were simple enough, 
but, little as she knew about such things, Christian could 
see they were made of very magnificent diamonds. 

•^Do you like them ? They are for 3mu.” 

“You have not bought them on purpose?” 

“Oh no, that extravagance was quite beyond me; but 
I had them re-set. They belonged to my mother, and 
have never been worn till now. Will my wife wear 
them ?” 

Christian drooped her head. Great tears were gather¬ 
ing under her eyelids. 

“I am so foqlish — so very foolish; and you are so 
good to me—so unfailingly, unceasingly good. I try to 
be good too; I do indeed. Don't be angry with me.” 

“Angry? my darling!” 

People may write sentiment by the page, or talk it by 
the hour, but there is something in real love which will 
neither be discussed nor described. Let us draw over it 
the holy veil of silence: these things ought to belong to 
two alone. 

Dr. Grey’s wife knew how he loved her. And when 
he quitted her to order the carriage which was to take 
them to the grand dinner-party, she stood, all in her 
fine garments, a fair, white, bridal-like vision—stood and 
wept. 

It is a law most absolute and inevitable that love, 
however great, however small, never remains quite sta¬ 
tionary ; it must either diminish or increase. When 
Christian awoke out of the stunned condition which had 
been hers both before and after her marriago, she began 


90 


Christianas Mistake. 


to awake also to the dawning consciousness of what real 
rnaiTiage ought to be—the perfect, sacred union, so sel¬ 
dom realized or even sought for, and yet none the less 
the right aim and just desire of every true man and 
woman, which, when not attained, makes the life imper¬ 
fect, and the marriage, if not a sin, a terrible mistake. 

“I have sinned! I have sinned!” was the perpetual 
cry of Christian’s heart, which she had thought was dead 
as a stone, and now discovered to be a living, throbbing, 
woman’s heart, which needed its lord, was read}^ to obey 
him, love and serve him, nay, fall down in the very dust 
before him, if only he could be found ! And she knew 
now—knew by the agony of regret for all she had miss¬ 
ed, that he never had been found; that the slain love 
over which she had mourned had been a mere fancy, not 
a vital human love at all. 

Now her husband never kissed her that she would not 
have given worlds to feel that his were the only lover’s 
lips which had ever touched hers; he never called her 
by one tender name that she did not shiver to think she 
had ever heard it from any other man. There was com¬ 
ing intQ her that sense of sacred self-appropriation, that 
fierce revulsion from any intrusion on the same, which 
comes into any woman’s nature when beginning to love 
as she is beloved. Christian did not as yet; but she rec¬ 
ognized her husband’s love, and it penetrated with a 
strong sweetness to her inmost soul. Mingled with it was 
an acute pain, a profound regret, a sad humility. Not 
hers, alas! the joyful pride, the full content, of a heart 
which is conscious in its sweetest depths that it gives as 
much as it receives. 


Christian’s Mistake, 


91 


This was all. She had done nothing wrong, nothing 
unworthy of either herself or Dr. Grey; nothing but what 
hundreds of women do every day, and neither blame 
themselves nor are blamed by others. She had but suf¬ 
fered a new footstep to enter her young life’s garden, 
without having had the courage to say of one little cor¬ 
ner in it, “ Do not tread there, it is a grave.” Only a 
grave; a very harmless grave now, tricked with innocent, 
girlish flowers, but still containing the merest handful of 
dust. It would never corrupt, and might even serve to 
fertilize that simple heart, which, out of its very simplici¬ 
ty, had made for itself a passing idol out of what was es¬ 
sentially false and base, which would have shortly crum¬ 
bled to pieces out of its own baseness, had not Fate—or 
Providence — with kindly cruel hand forever thrown it 
down. Still, this was a grave, and her husband did not 
know it was there. 

Nobody ever had known. The day of delusion had 
been so short, and the only relics left of it were those four 
letters, burnt by herself on her marriage morning. The 
whole story, occupying in all only four weeks, had gone 
by exactly like a dream, and she had awakened—awa¬ 
kened to find out what love really was, or what it might 
have been. 

She wept, not loudly, but quietly, till she dared not 
weep any more. A sudden thought made her struggle 
at once for composure, and try to efface every external 
trace of tears. 

“ I am Dr. Grey’s wife,” she said to herself, and re¬ 
solved that the grand University magnates should find 
out nothing in her unworthy of that name—nothing that 


92 


Christian's MistaTce, 


could make people say, even tlie most ill-natured of them 
—and, alas! she had lately come to learn that the world 
is filled, not, as she thought, with only bad and good, but 
with an intermediate race, which is merely ill-natured—• 
say, with a sneer, that Dr. Grey’s second marriage had 
been “ a mistake.” 

Never before had Christian thought much of these out¬ 
side things; but she did now—at least she tried her best. 
There was not a lock unsmoothed in her fair hair, not a 
fold awry in her silks or laces, and not a trace of agita¬ 
tion visible in her manner or countenance when Mrs. 
Grey opened her door to descend the stairs. 

She was considering whether it would not be courteous 
to knock at Miss Gascoigne’s door, and ask if she too 
were ready, when she heard a loud outcry in the nursery 
above. Thi.s, alas! was no novelty. More than once 
Christian had rushed wildly up stairs, expecting some 
dreadful catastrophe, but it was only the usual warfare 
between Phillis and the children, especially Arthur, who 
was no longer a baby to be petted and scolded, or a little 
girl to be cowed into obedience, but a big boy to be ruled, 
if at all, m et armis —as Mrs. Grey had more than once 
suspected Phillis did rule. 

“I won’t! I won’t! and you sha’n’t make me!” was 
the fierce scream which caught her ear before she entered 
the nursery door. 

There stood Phillis, her face red with passion, grasping 
Arthur with one hand, and beating him with the other, 
while the boy, holding on to her with the tenacity of a 
young bulldog, was, with all the might of his little fists, 
returning blow for blow —in short, a regular stand-up 


Christian^ Mistake, 


93 


fight, in which the two faces, elder and younger, woman 
and child, were alike in obstinacy and fury. No wonder 
at Titia’s sullenness or Atty’s storms of rage. The chil¬ 
dren only learned what they were taught. 

“ Phillis, what is the matter? What has the boy done 
amiss ?” 

Phillis turned round with the defiant look which she 
assumed every time Mrs. Grey entered the nursery, only 
a little harder, a little fiercer, with the black brows bent, 
and the under-hung mouth almost savage in its expres 
sion. 

“ What has he done, ma’am? lie has disobeyed me. 
I’ll teach you to do it again, you little villain you!” 

^‘Phillis!” 

Never before had Phillis’s new mistress addressed her 
in that tone; it made her pause a second, and then her 
blows fell with redoubled strength on the shrinking 
shoulders, even on the head, of the frantic, furious boy. 

Now there was one thing which in all her life Chris¬ 
tian never could stand, and that was, to see a child beat¬ 
en, or in any way ill used. The tyranny which calls it¬ 
self authority, the personal revenge which hides under 
the name of punishment, and both used, cowardly, by 
the stronger against the weaker, were, to her keen sense 
of justice, so obnoxious, so detestable, that they always 
roused in her a something, which is at the root of all the 
righteous rebellions in the world — a something which 
God, who ordained righteous authority, implants in ev^ 
ery honest human heart as a safeguard against authority 
unrighteous, and therefore authority no longer. If Chris¬ 
tian had been a mother, and seen the father of her own 


94 


ChristiaiCs Mistake, 


children beating one of them in the way Phillis beat Ar¬ 
thur, it would have made her, as she was wont to say, 
with a curious flash of her usually quiet eyes, “dan¬ 
gerous.” 

She wasted no words; it was not her habit. She 
merely, with her firm, strong hand, wrenched the victim 
out of the oppressor’s grasp. 

“Arthur, go to my room. I will hear what 3 ^ou have 
done amiss. Phillis, remember, henceforward no chil¬ 
dren in my house shall be struck or punished except by 
their father or myself.” 

Clear and determined rang out the mistress’s voice— 
mother and mistress—in this, her first assertion of both 
her rights. Phillis drew back astonished, and then, re¬ 
covering herself, darted after the retreating boy. But it 
was too late; he had already gained the staircase. It 
was steep, dark, twisted, very unsafe for children; still, 
in his fear, Arthur plunged down it. In a minute there 
was heard a cry and a heavy fall. 

Fierce-tempered woman as she was, Phillis had a heart 
She rushed down after the child, but he turned scream¬ 
ing from her, and it was his stepmother who lifted him 
up and carried him into her own room. 

Christian, young as she was, had had necessarily^ much 
experience with children. She soothed the boy, and felt 
that no limbs were broken ; indeed, he complained of 
nothing, but he turned whiter and whiter, and shrank 
from the slightest touch. 

“Something is certainly wrong with him. We must 
send for the doctor. Whom do you have ordinarily?” 

The question was put to Phillis, who, her fury al] 


Christian's Mistake- 


95 


gone, stood behind the sofa almost as pale as the poor 
child. She answered humbly, and named Dr. Anstruth 
er, whom Christian well knew by report; an old man, 
who for forty years had been the depository of the sick¬ 
nesses and the sorrows of half Avonsbridge. 

“Go, then, tell your master I think Barker ought to 
be sent for him at once; and say to Dr. Grey—only 
don’t frighten him, for it may be a mere trifle after all—• 
that I am afraid he will have to dine out without me to¬ 
day. Go quick, Phillis; there is no time to lose.” For 
the little face was sinking back paler and paler, and there 
was an occasional faint moan. 

Almost lor the first time since her entrance into the 
Grey family, Phillis, against her will, actually obeyed 
orders and slipped away; so hastily that she stumbled 
over Letitia, and gave her a good box on the ear, how¬ 
ever, the little girl did not cry, but gathered herself up, 
as if quite used to such treatment, and crept over to the 
sofa. 

“Will Atty die, do you think?” she whispered in 
much curiosity—only curiosity; there was not a tear in 
her eyes. “Because then he would never thump me 
any more.” 

Christian’s very soul recoiled, and then melted into 
the deepest pity. What sort of bringing up could it 
have been which had resulted in feelings like these? 

She took no notice of what was said, but merely de¬ 
sired the little girl to bring pillows and a footstool, so 
that she could hold Arthur as easily as possible till the 
doctor came. And then she bade her take off the dia¬ 
mond bracelets and the hanging lace, and told her where 


90 


(JhristiarCs Mistake, 


I 


to put all this finery away, which Letitia accomplished 
with aptitude and neatness. 

“There, that will do. Thank you, my dear. You are 
a tidy little girl. Will you come and give me a kiss.” 

Letitia obeyed, though with some hesitation, and then 
came and stood by her step-mother, watching her intent¬ 
ly. At last she said, 

“You are crumpling your pretty white silk dressy 
Won’t that vex you very much?” 

“Not very much—if it can not be helped.” 

“That is odd. I thought you liked fine clothes, and 
married papa that he might give you them; Phillis said 
so.” 

“Phillis was mistaken.” 

More than that Christian did not answer, indeed, she 
hardly took in what the child said, being fully engrossed 
with her charge. 

Letitia spoke again. 

“ Are you really sorry for Atty ? Aunt Henrietta 
said you did not care for any of us.” 

“ Not care for any of you !” And almost as if it were 
a real mother’s heart, Christian felt hers yearn over the 
poor pale face, growing every minute more ghastly. 

“ I wonder where papa can be! Letitia, go and look 
for him. Tell him to send Barker for the doctor at once.” 

And then she gave her whole attention to Arthur, for¬ 
getting every thing except that she had taken upon her¬ 
self toward these children all the duties and anxieties of 
motherhood. How many — perhaps none — would she 
ever win of its joys? But to women like her duty alone 
constitutes happiness. 


Christian^ Mistake. 


97 


She felt happier than she had done for very, very long, 
when at last Arthur lay soothed and quieted in her arms, 
which clasped round him close and warm, as finding in 
him something to comfort, something to love. She had 
almost lost sight of danger and fear, when the door open¬ 
ed and Phillis entered. Dr. Grey following. 

On Christian’s first look at the latter, she found out 
one thing—which hardly so much lessened her reverence 
as converted it into a strange tenderness—that her hus¬ 
band was one of the many men who, brave enough mor¬ 
ally, are the most utter cowards at sight of physical suf¬ 
fering. Completely unhinged, trembling all over. Dr. 
Grey knelt by his boy’s side. 

“What must we do, Christian? What must we do?” 

She knew at once that whatever was done she must do 
it; but before she had time to say a word there appeared 
Miss Gascoigne. 

“ What is wrong? Why is the doctor sent for? That 
child hurt? Nonsense! Hurt seriously with just a mere 
slip down a few stairs! I will never believe it. It is 
just making a fuss about nothing. Dr. Grey, we must 
go to the dinner-party, or what would people say ? Phil¬ 
lis, take Arthur from Mrs. Grey and carry him up to the 
nursery.” 

But Arthur screamed, and clung with all his might to 
his step-mother’s neck. 

“ He is hurt,” said Christian, firmly, “and I can not 
have him moved. Hush, Atty I you grieve papa. Be 
quiet, and nobody shall touch you but papa and me.” 

Miss Gascoigne stood mute—then again ordered Phil» 
lis to take the child. 


E 


98 


Christian''s 3fistaJce. 


“ I won’t go! She will beat me again. Please, please 
and he clung again to his step-mother. “ I’ll be good— 
I’ll be so good, if you will only take care of me.” 

“ I will,” said Christian. And the desperate instinct 
of protection, which some women have toward all help¬ 
less things, gleamed in her eyes as she added, “ Miss Gas¬ 
coigne, you must leave this child to me. I know what 
to do with him. Shall it be so, Dr. Grey ?” 

‘‘ Certainly.” 

With one furious glance at her brother-in-law, Miss 
Gascoigne turned and walked out of the room. 

But there was no time to heed her, for that instant, 
bubbling over the boy’s white lips, Christian saw a red 
drop or two; they made her own heart stand still. 

It had so happened that during her stay with the Fer¬ 
gusons one of the little boys had broken his collar-bone; 
a slight accident in itself, had not the bone pierced the 
lung, causing a long and severe illness. Quick as light¬ 
ning Christian recollected all that had not been done, and 
all that the doctor said they ought to have done, in the 
case of little Jamie. It was useless speaking out what 
she feared; indeed, one look at Dr. Grey’s terrified face 
showed her it was impossible; so she merely laid Arthur 
down very gently from her arms, persuaded him to let 
her place him on his back along the sofa, and wiped the 
few drops from his mouth. 

“ Do not be frightened, papa”—and she made an effort 
at a smile—“ as I said, I think I know what is amiss with 
him. I am used to children. The doctor will be here 
soon. Suppose you were to go down stairs and see if he 
is coming.” 


Christiari^s Mistake, 


99 


Dr. Grey obeyed mechanically. When he came back 
he found Letitia and the nurse sent away. Christian 
hardly knew how she managed it, but she did do it, for it 
was necessary; Arthur must be kept quiet. She was 
now sitting in the silent, half-dark room, with the boy ly¬ 
ing quite still and patient now, his little hot hand cling¬ 
ing fast to hers. 

“ How content he seems with you ! He does not want 
Phillis, I think.” 

“ No! no! no!” cried Arthur, violently. “ Phillis beat 
me; she always does, every day of my life. I hate her! 
If I die, Phillis ought to be hanged, for it was she that 
killed me.” 

“ Hush ! hush ! no speaking,” said Christian ; and her 
soft compelling hand pressed the boy down again. She 
was now almost certain that the lung was injured, and her 
eyes were full of foreboding compassion as they rested 
on the poor little fellow, so unused to suffering. 

“Is this all true about Phillis?” whispered Dr. Grey. 

“I fear it is; but we can not talk of that just now. 
Ah I here is the doctor.” 

It was an inexpressible relief to Christian, when, after 
his first glance at the patient. Dr. Anstruther said, in his 
quick, firm, cheery way, 

“Now, Dr. Grey, we’ll soon put your little man right. 
But we only want women here. The best thing you can 
do is to walk out of the room. This young lady ?” 

“ Mrs. Grey—Dr. Anstruther.” 

“I see — I beg your pardon, madam;” and his keen 
ayes took in at a glance the graceful figure, the brilliant 
evening dress. “I was to have met you to-day at din- 


L.ofC. 


100 Christimi^s Mistake. 

iier at the vice chancellor’s, but this prevented you, I 
suppose ?” 

“Yes,” said Christian; and then, in a few whispered 
words, told about the accident, and her suspicions of 
what it was. The freemasonry of trust which springs 
up instantaneously between any honest doctor and sen¬ 
sible nurse made them friends in five minutes. 

Mrs. Grey’s fears had been only too true. Many weeks 
of illness and of anxious nursing lay before her and her 
poor boy. After all had been done that could be done, 
Dr. Grey was recalled, and the facts explained to him ; 
though Dr. Anstruther, who seemed to understand him 
well, dwelt as lightly upon them as possible, consistent 
with that strict truth which was always spoken by the 
good doctor. Still, it was enough. 

When Dr. Anstruther was gone. Dr. Grey came and 
stood by the sofa, in great distress. 

“An illness of weeks—delicate for months—and per¬ 
haps weakly for life. Oh my poor boy!” 

“Hush!” said Christian; “the child might hear. Go, 
and sit down for a minute, and I will come to you.” 

She came, and, leaning over him, laid her hand tender¬ 
ly on her husband’s shoulder. She could do no more, 
even though he was her husband. She felt helpless to 
comfort him, for the key which unlocks all consolation 
was in her heart not yet found. Only there came over 
her, with a solemn presentiment which had its sweetness 
still, the conviction that whatever happiness her lot might 
have missed, its duties were very plain, very sure. All 
her life she would have, more or less, to take care of, not 
only these her children, but their father. 


Christianas Mistake. 


101 


She stood beside him, holding his shaking hands be¬ 
tween her two firm ones, till she heard Arthur call 
faintly. 

“I must leave you now. You will go to bed; and 
oh, do try to sleep. Poor papa!” 

^‘And you?” 

‘•I shall sit up, of course. Never mind me; I have 
done it many a time.” 

“Will you have nobody with you?” 

“No. It would disturb Arthur. Hush! there is no 
time for speaking. This once you must let me have my 
way. Good-night, papa.” 

But for all that, in the dead of the night, she heard the 
study-door open, and saw Dr. Grey come stealing in to 
where she sat watching—as she was to watch for many a 
weary day and night—beside his boy’s pillow. He saw 
her likewise—a figure, the like of which, husband and 
father as he had been, he had never seen before. No 
household experience of his had ever yet shown him a 
woman in that light—the dearest light in which any 
man can behold her. 

A figure, quite different from the stately lady in white 
splendors of six hours before, sitting, dressed in a so¬ 
ber, soundless, dark-colored gown, motionless by the dim 
lamplight, but with the soft eyes open and watchful, and 
the tender hands ever ready for those endless wants of 
sickness at night, especially sickness that may be tend¬ 
ing unto death, or unto the awful struggle between life 
and death, which most women have at some time of their 
lives to keep ward over till danger has gone by—just 
the sort of figure, in short, that every man is sure to need 


102 


Christian's Mistake. 


beside him, once or more, in his journey between the cra¬ 
dle and the grave. Happy he over whose cradle it has 
bent, and who, nearing the grave, shall have such a one 
upon whose bosom he may close his weary eyes. 

When Christian saw her husband, she stirred, and put 
up a finger for silence. Dr. Grey crossed the room, try¬ 
ing hard to make his step light and noiseless, but pite¬ 
ously failing in the attempt. Still Arthur was not dis¬ 
turbed. 

“He sleeps sound, Christian. Does he suffer very 
much, do you think?” 

“Not now.” 

“Will he ever recover?” 

“ I hope so. Oh, please God, I trust so! Dr. An- 
struther said there was no reason why he should not.” 

“And you—^you think so too?” with a touching ap¬ 
peal. 

“ Yes, I do think so.” 

Dr. Grey seemed relieved. In a kind of helpless, 
childlike way, he stood behind her and watched all she 
did for the child, who waked thirsty, and cried and 
moaned, but by-and-by was soothed to sleep again. 

His father shuddered as he gazed upon him. 

“ He looks as if he were dead—my poor boy !” 

“You must not look at him. You must go to bed,” 
said Christian, with a gentle authority. 

“ Presently. And you—are you not afraid to sit up 
here alone?” 

“ Oh no.” 

“ You never seem to be afraid of any thing.” 

“Not of much—I have gone through such a deal,” 


Christian's Mistake. 


103 


said Christian, with a faint smile. “But, papa, indeed 
you must go to bed.” 

Nevertheless, they stood a little longer looking down 
upon Arthur, whose breathing grew softer into natural 
sleep. Then, with a mutual impulse given by the unity 
of a common grief, the husband and wife turned and kiss 
ed one another. 

“ God bless you, my darling, my poor children’s moth 
er, the first they ever—” 

He stopped, and never finished the sentence. 


104 


Christian's Mistake* 


CHAPTER YI. 

“ Love that asketh love again, 

Finds the barter naught but pain^ 

Love that giveth in full store, 

Aye receives as much, and more. 

“ Love, exacting nothing back. 

Never knoweth any lack; 

Love, compelling love to pay. 

Sees him bankrupt every day.” 

Life in the sick-room—most of us know what that is; 
how the whole world narrows itself within four walls, 
and every fanciful grief and morbid imagining slips off, 
pressed down into nothingness by the weight of daily, 
hourly cares, and commonplace, yet all-engrossing reali¬ 
ties. 

Christian was a born nurse—and nurses, like poets, are 
born, not made. You may recognize the faculty in the 
little girl of ten years old, as she steals into your room to 
bring you your breakfast, and takes the opportunity to 
arrange your pillow, and put your drawers in order, and 
do any other little helpful office which you may need; 
and you miss it painfully in the matron of sixty, who, 
with perhaps the kindest intentions, comes to nurse you, 
taking for granted that she is the best person you could 
possibly have aboirt you; and yet you would be thank¬ 
ful to shut the door upon her, and struggle, suffer, die 


Christian''s Mistake. 


105 


alone; as Arthur, child as he was, would rather have died 
than suffer near his sick-bed either of his two aunts. 

Phillis, too—he screamed whenever he saw her, and 
with a jealousy not unnatural, and which Mrs. Grey was 
rather sorry for than annoyed at, she came into the room 
continually. At last it became a question almost of life 
and death, for the fever ran high ; and even Dr. Anstruth- 
er, cheery man as he was, began to look exceedingly 
grave. The child must be kept quiet, and how to do it? 

For in this crisis Christian found out, what every wom¬ 
an has to find out soon or late, the weak points in her 
husband. She saw that, like many another good and 
brave man, he was in this matter quite paralyzed; that 
she could rely only upon herself, and act for herself, or 
else tell him what he was to do, and help him to do it, 
just like a child. She did not care for him the less for 
this—she sometimes felt she cared for him more; but she 
opened her eyes calmly to the facts of the case, and to 
her own heavy responsibility. 

She consulted with Dr. Anstruther, and left him to ex¬ 
plain things to whosoever he would; then locked the 
door, and for eight days and nights suffered no one to 
cross the threshold of Arthur’s room except the doctor. 

It was a daring expedient, but the desperation of the 
time, and Dr. Anstruther’s consent and co-operation, gave 
her courage; she was neither timid nor ignorant; she 
knew exactly what to do, and she believed, if it were 
God’s will to save Arthur’s life. He would give her 
strength to do it 

‘‘My boy’s life—only his life!” she prayed, more earn¬ 
estly than she had ever prayed in her life before, and 
E 2 


106 


ChristiaiCs Miatake, 


then prepared for the long solitary vigil, of which it was 
impossible to foresee the end. In its terrible suspense 
she forgot every thing except the present; day by day, 
and hour by hour, as they slipped heavily along. She 
ceased to think of herself at all, scarcely even of her hus¬ 
band ; her mind was wholly engrossed by her poor sick 
boy. 

Hers, though hitherto she had never loved him; for 
he was not lovable at all, that rough, selfish, headstrong 
Arthur, the plague of his aunts, and the terror of the 
nursery. But now, when he lay on his sick-bed, linger¬ 
ing on from day to day, in total dependence on her care, 
with a heavy future before him, poor child! — for he 
seemed seriously injured—there came into his step-moth¬ 
er’s weak, womanly heart a woman’s passionate tender¬ 
ness over all helpless things She did to him not only 
her duty, but something more. She learned to love 
him. 

Had any one told her a while ago that she should 
stand for hours watching every change in that pale face, 
whose common, uncomely features grew spiritualized 
with sickness, till she often trembled on their unearthly 
sweetness; that twenty times in the night she would 
start up from her uncomfortable sofa-bed, listening for 
the slightest sound; that the sight of Arthur eating his 
dinner (often prepared by her own hands, for the serv¬ 
ants of the Lodge were strangely neglectful), or of Ar¬ 
thur trying to play a game at draughts, and faintly smil¬ 
ing over it, should cause her a perfect ecstasy of delight, 
Christian would have replied “Impossible!” But heav¬ 
en sometimes converts our impossibles and inevitables 


Christian's Mistake. 


101 


into the very best blessings we have—most right, most 
natural, and most dear. 

As to Christian hemelf, she was, even externally, great¬ 
ly changed. Pale as she looked, and no wonder, there 
was a light in her eye and a firmness in her step very 
different from those of the weary-looking woman who 
used to roam listlessly about the gloomy galleries, or sit 
silently working in the equally gloomy drawing-room 
with Miss Gascoigne and Miss Grey. 

Poor Aunt Maria, in her regular daily visit—she 
dared venture no more—to the sick-room door, would 
sometimes say hesitatingly, “ My dear, how well you 
look still? You are sure you are not breaking down?” 
And Christian, grateful for the only kindly woman’s face 
she ever saw near her, would respond with a smile— 
sometimes with a kiss, which always alarmed Aunt Maria 
exceedingly. 

As for Aunt Henrietta, she never came at all. Since 
the evening when she had marched out of the room in 
high dudgeon, she had taken not the smallest notice of 
the sick boy. His life or death was apparently of far 
less moment to her than her own offended dignity. Had 
he been left in her sole charge, she would doubtless have 
done her duty to him; but to stand by and see another 
doing it? No! a thousand times no! That part, insig¬ 
nificant in itself, and yet often one of the very sweetest 
and most useful in life’s harmonies, familiarly called 
“second fiddle,” was a part impossible to be played by 
Miss Gascoigne. 

What she did or said—though probably the first was 
little and the other a great deal—was happily unknown 


108 


Christian's Mistake. 


to Mrs. Grey. Her one duty lay clear before her, to 
save her poor boy’s life, if any human means could do 
il. And sometimes, when she saw the agony and anx¬ 
iety in his father’s face, Christian felt a wild joy in spend¬ 
ing herself and being spent, even to the last extremity, 
if by such means she could repay to her most good and 
tender husband that never-counted, unaccountable debt 
of love, which nothing ever does pay except return in 
kind. 

Concerning Arthur himself, the matter was simple 
enough now. All his fractiousness, restlessness, and in¬ 
numerable wants were easy to put up with; she loved 
the child. And he, who (except from his father) bad 
never known any love before, took it with a wondering 
complacency, half funny, half pathetic. Sometimes he 
would say, looking at her wistfully, “ Oh, it’s so nice to 
be ill!” And once, the first time she untied his right 
arm, and allowed it to move freely, he slipped it round 
her neck, whispering, “You are very good to me, 
mother." 

Christian crept away. She dared not clasp him or 
cry over him, he was so w^eak still; but she stole aside 
into the oriel window, her heart full almost to bursting. 

After that he always called her “mother.” 

The other two children she scarcely ever saw. The 
need for keeping Arthur quiet was so vital, that of course 
they were not admitted to his room, and she herself rare¬ 
ly left it. Dim and far away seemed all the world, and 
especially her own poor life, whether happy or misera¬ 
ble, compared with that frail existence, which hung al¬ 
most upon a thread. 


Christian's Mistake. 


109 


At last the medical opinion was given that little Ar¬ 
thur might, with great care and incessant watching, 
(“ which it is plain he will have, Mrs. Grej,” added the 
old doctor, bowing and smiling), grow up to be a man 
yet. 

When Dr. Anstruther said this, Christian felt as if the 
whole world had brightened. 

She had no one to tell her joy to, for Dr. Grey was 
out, but she stood in her familiar retreat at the window 
—oh, what that window could have revealed of the last 
five weeks!—and her tears, long dried up, poured down 
like summer rain. 

And then Dr. Grey came in, very much agitated; he 
had met the doctor in the street, and been told the glad 
tidings. She had to compel herself into sudden quiet¬ 
ness, for her husband’s sake, which, indeed, was a lesson 
now dailj^ being learned, and growing every day sweeter 
in the learning. 

“Christian,” he said, when they had talked it all over, 
and settled when and where Arthur was first to go out 
of doors, with various other matter of fact things which 
she thought would soonest calm the father’s emotion— 
“ Christian, Dr. Anstruther tells me my boy could not 
have lived but for you and your care. I shall ever re¬ 
member this—ever feel grateful.” 

A pang, the full meaning of which she then did not 
in the least understand, shot through Christian’s heart. 
“ You should not feel grateful to his mother.''^ 

“Do you mean, really, that you love him like—like a 
mother ?” 

“Of course I do.” 


110 


Christianas Mistake. 


Dr. Grey said nothing more, but his wife felt him put 
his arm round her. She leaned her head against him; 
and, though she still wept—for the tears, once unsealed, 
seemed painfully quick to rise—still she was contented 
and at rest. Worn and weary a little, now the suspense 
was over the reaction came, but very peaceful. Uncon¬ 
sciously there ran through her mind one of the foolish 
bits of poetry she had been fond of when a girl: 

“ In the unruffled shelter of thy love, 

My bark leaped homeward from a stonriy sea, 

And furled its sails, and, like a nested dove—” 

“ Mother!’’ called out Arthur’s feeble, fretful voice, and 
in a minute the poetry had all gone out of her head, and 
she was by her boy’s side, feeding him, jesting with him, 
and planning how the first day of his convalescence 
should be celebrated by a grand festival, inviting the two 
others to tea in his room. It was her own room, from 
which he had never been moved since the first night. 
How familiar had grown the crimson sofa, the tall mirror, 
the carved oaken wardrobe! The bride had regarded 
these splendors with a wondering, half-uneasy gratitude ; 
but now, to Arthur’s nurse and “mother,” they looked 
pleasant, home-like, and dear. 

“We will pull the so fix to the fire. Help, papa, please, 
and place the little table before it. And we will send 
written invitations, which papa shall deliver, with a post¬ 
man’s knock, at the nurserj^ door. We won’t send him 
one, I think?” 

“Very well,” said Dr. Grey, with a great pretense of 
wrath; “ then papa will have to invite himself, like the 
wicked old fairy at the christening of— Who was it, 
Arthur?” 


ChrisUaol's Mistake. 


Ill 


Arthur clapped his hands, which proceeding was in¬ 
stantly stopped by Christian. “ It was the Sleeping Beau¬ 
ty, which you don’t know one bit about, and I do, and 
ever so many more tales. She used to tell me them in 
the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep, and they 
were so nice and so funny ! She shall tell you some aft¬ 
er tea. And we’ll make her sing too. Papa, did you 
ever hear her sing?” 

“ No,” said Dr. Gre}^ 

“ Oh, but I have. She’ll sing for me,” returned Ar¬ 
thur, proudly. “ She said she would, though she had 
meant never to sing again.” 

Christian blushed violently, for the boy, in his uncon^ 
scious way, had referred to a little episode of his illness, 
when, having exhausted all efforts to soothe him into 
drowsiness, she had tried her voice, silent for many 
months — silent since before she had known Dr. Grey. 
She had wished it so—wished to bury all relics of that 
time of her youth deep down, so that no chance hand 
could ever dig them up again. 

“ Do you really sing ?” asked Dr. Grey, a little sur¬ 
prised, and turning full upon her those grave, gentle, ten¬ 
der eyes. 

She blushed more painfully than ever, but she an¬ 
swered steadily, “Yes, I was supposed to have a very fine 
voice. My father wished it cultivated for the stage. It 
might have been so if things had been different.” 

“Would you have liked it?—the stage, I mean.” 

“ Oh no, no!” with a visible, unmistakable shudder. 
“I would have resisted to the last. I hated it.” 

“ Was that why you left off singing?” 


112 


Christiari^s Mistake. 


It would have been so easy to tell a lie—a little harm¬ 
less white lie; but Christian could not do it. She could 
keep silence to any extent, but falsehood was impossible 
to her. She dropped her eyes; but the color once more 
overspread her whole face as she answered, distinctly and 
decisively, “ No.” 

It surprised her somewhat afterward, not then—her 
heart was beating too violently for her to notice any 
thing much—that her husband asked her no farther ques¬ 
tion, but immediately turned the conversation to Arthur’s 
tea-party, in the discussion of which both were so eager 
to amuse the invalid that the other subject dropped— 
naturally, it appeared; anyhow, effectually. 

But when the two other children came in to see Ar¬ 
thur, he again recurred to her singing, which had evident¬ 
ly taken a strong hold upon his imagination. 

“ Papa, you must hear her. Mother, sing the song 
with pretty little twiddle-twiddles in it—far prettier than 
A.unt Henrietta’s things—something about ‘ warbling in 
\er breath!’ ” 

“Oh no, not that,” said Christian, shrinking involun- 
■arily. What from? Was it from a ghostly vision of 
the last time she had sung it—that is, properly, to a pia¬ 
no-forte accompaniment, played by fingers that had aft¬ 
erward caught hold of her trembling fingers, and been 
a living comment on the song? It was that exquisite 
one from Handel’s “ Acis and Galatea:” 

“Love in her eyes sits playing, 

And sheds delicious death ; 

Love on her lips is straying, 

And warbling in her breath.*' 


Christianas Mistake. 


113 


Probably never was there a melody which more per¬ 
fectly illustrated that sort of love, the idealization of fan¬ 
cy and feeling, with just a glimmer of real passion quiv¬ 
ering through it—the light cast in advance by the yet 
unrisen day. 

“Not that song, Arthur. It is rather difficult; be¬ 
sides, papa might not care to hear it.” 

“ Papa might if he were tried,” said Dr. Grey, smiling. 
“ Why not do to please me what you do to please the 
children ?” 

So Christian sang at once—ay, and that very song. 
She faced it. She determined she would, with all the 
ghosts of the past that hovered round it. And soon she 
found how, thus faced, as says that other lovely song of 
Handel’s, which she had learned at the same time, 

“The wandering shadows, ghastly pale, 

All troop to their infernal jail: 

Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave.” 

Her ghosts slipped one by one into the grave of the 
past. She had begun her song feebly and uncertainly; 
but when she really heard the sound of her own voice 
echoing through the lofty room, with a gush of melody 
that the old walls had not known for centuries, there 
came upon her an intoxication of enjoyment. It was 
that pure enjoyment which all true artists—be they sing¬ 
ers, painters, poets—understand, and they only—the de¬ 
light in mere creation, quite distinct from any sympathy 
or admiration of others; and oh! how far removed from 
any mean vanity or love of praise. 

Christian was happy—happy as a lark in the air, just 
to hear—and make—the sound of her own singing. Her 


114 


Christian’s Mistake. 


face brightened; her figure, as she stood leaning against 
the mantel-piece, assumed a new grace and dignity. Slie 
was beautiful—absolutely beautiful; and her husband 
saw it. 

Was it fancy, if, glancing at her. Dr. Grey half sighed? 
Only for a moment; then he said cheerily, 

“ Arthur was right. Children, tell your mother she is 
the best singer we ever heard in all our lives.” 

“That she is! She sings just like a bird in a tree. 
And then, you see, papa, she is our own bird.” 

Christian came down from the clouds at once, and 
laughed heartily at the idea of being Arthur’s “ own 
bird.” 

“ Titia,” said Dr. Grey, with sudden energy, as if the 
thought had been brewing in his mind for many min¬ 
utes, “is there not a piano in the drawing-room ? There 
used to be.” 

“Yes, and I practice upon it two hours every day,’^ 
answered Letitia, with dignity. “But afterward Aunt 
Henrietta locks it up and takes the key. She says it is 
poor mamma’s piano, and nobody is to play upon it but 
me.” 

As the child said this in a tone so like Aunt Henriet¬ 
ta’s, her father looked—as Christian had only seen him 
look once or twice before, and thought that there might 
be circumstances under which any body displeasing him 
would be considerably afraid of Dr. Arnold Grey. 

“ Did you know of this, Christian ?” 

“Yes,” she answered, very softly, with a glance, half 
warning, half entreating, round upon the children. “But 
we will not say any thing about it; I never did, and I 
had rather not do so now.” 


Christian’s Mistake. 


115 


“ 1 understand. We will speak of it another time.” 

But he did not, neither that night, nor for several days; 
and Christian felt only too thankful for his silence. 

Sometimes, when, after ringing at intervals of five min¬ 
utes for some trifling thing. Barker had sent up “Miss 
Gascoigne’s compliments, and the servants couldn’t be 
spared to wait up stairs,” or the cook had apologized 
for deficiencies in Arthurs dinner by “ Miss Gascoigne 
wanted it for lunchand especially when, to her vari¬ 
ous messages to the nursery, no answer was ever return¬ 
ed—sometimes it had occurred to Christian—gentle as she 
was, and too fully engrossed to notice small things—that 
this was not exactly the position Dr. Grey’s wife ought 
to hold in his—and her—own house. Still she said 
nothing. She trusted to time and patience. And she 
had such a dread of domestic war—of a family divided 
against itself. Besides, some change must come, for in a 
day or two she would have to resume her ordinary du¬ 
ties, to take her place at the head of her husband’s table, 
and once more endure the long mornings, the weary 
evenings, to meet and pass over the sharp speeches, the 
unloving looks, which made the continual atmosphere 
of the Lodge. 

“ Oh!” she thought to herself, glancing round upon 
those four walls of the sick-chamber, which had .seen, 
with much of anxiety, much also of love that never faih 
ed, and patience that knew no end, “ I could almost say 
with Arthur, ‘It is so nice to be ill 1’ ” 

He seemed to think the same; for on the day he left 
it he grumbled dreadfully at being carried in Phillis’s 
strong arms—which he had fiercely resisted at first—to 


116 


Christian's Mistake. 


drawing-room, where he was to hold his second tea-part}^ 
—of aunts. 

There they sat waiting, Aunt Maria fond and tearful, 
Aunt Henrietta grim and severe. And shortly—nay, 
before Arthur was well settled on the sofa, and lay pale 
and silent, still clinging to his step-mother’s hand, the 
cause of her severity came out. 

“Dr. Grey, what have you been doing? Buying a 
new piano?” 

Yes, there it was, a beautiful Erard; and Dr. Grey 
stood and smiled at it with an almost childish delight, 
as if he had done something exceedingly clever, which 
he certainly had. 

“To buy a new piano — without consulting me! I 
never heard of such a thing. Mrs. Grey, this is your 
doing 1” 

“ She never saw it before, or knew I meant to buy it; 
but, now it is bought, I hope she will like it. Try it, 
Christian.” 

His wife was deeply touched, so much so that she al¬ 
most felt sorry for Aunt Henrietta. She would have 
given much to bring a little brightness, a little kindness, 
into that worn, restless, unhappy face, true reflection of 
the nature which itself created its own unhappiness, as 
well as that of all connected with it. She said, almost 
humbly, 

“You are very good! I never had a piano of my 
own before. And I hope Miss Gascoigne will enjoy it 
as much as I shall myself.” 

The soft answer—never wasted upon fiercest wrath— 
threw a little oil upon Miss Gascoigne’s. She spoke no 


Christianas Mistake. 


117 


more, but she resolutely turned her back upon the of¬ 
fending instrument. Christian struck a few chords, just 
to please her husband, and came away. 

It was an uncomfortable tea-party—not nearly so mer¬ 
ry as Arthur’s first. After it, the boy wearily curled up 
on the sofa to sleep, and his father glanced round in 
search of his best friend—the big book. 

“ Stop a minute. Dr. Grey; before you retire to your 
study, as you always seem to do whenever all your fam¬ 
ily happen to be met sociably together, I have to ask 
you about that invitation to St. Mary’s Lodge which 
came this morning.” 

Dr. Grey paused, and listened to a long explanation, 
ending in the decision (to which Christian passively sub¬ 
mitted, for what must be done had best be done quick* 
Ij) that he and his bride should make their long-delayed 
public appearance in Avonsbridge society at an evening 
party shortly to be given by the Master of St. Mary’s. 

“ It is a musical party,” explained Miss Gascoigne, 
when. Dr. Grey having quitted the room, Christian, for 
want of something to converse about, began to make a 
few polite inquiries concerning it. “So you have got 
your piano just in time, and may practice all day long, to 
be ready for your performance. Of course you will be 
asked to perform, since every body knows about your fa¬ 
ther and his musical genius. By-the-by, I met lately a 
gentleman who said he knew Mr. Oakley, and was ex¬ 
ceedingly surprised—at which I must confess I scarcely 
wondered—when he heard who it was that my brother- 
in-law had married.” 

“ Oh, Henrietta!” pleaded poor Aunt Maria, with he? 


118 


Christian''s Mistake. 


most troubled look. But it was too late. Even Chris¬ 
tian—quiet as her temper was, and strong her resolution 
to keep peace, at any price which cost nobody any thing 
excepting herself—was roused at last. 

Miss Gascoigne,” she said, and her eyes blazed and 
her whole figure dilated, “ when your brother married 
me, he did it of his own free choice. He loved me. 
Whatever I was, he loved me. And whatever I may be 
now, I at least know his dignity and my own too well to 
submit to be spoken to, or spoken of, in this manner. It 
is not of the slightest moment to me who among your ac¬ 
quaintances criticises myself or my marriage, only I beg 
to be spared the information afterward. For my father” 
—she gulped down a great agony, a sorrow darker than 
that of death—“ he was my father. You had better be 
silent concerning him.” 

Miss Gascoigne was silent—for a few minutes. Per¬ 
haps she was a little startled, almost frightened—many a 
torturer is a great coward—by the sight of that white 
face, its every feature trembling with righteous indigna¬ 
tion ; or, perhaps, some touch of nature in the hard wom¬ 
an’s heart pleaded against this unwomanly persecution 
of one who had never injured her. But she could not 
hold her peace for long. 

There is no need to be violent, Mrs. Grey. It would 
be a sad thing, indeed, Maria, if your brother had married 
a violent-tempered woman.” 

“I am not that. Why do you make me seem so?’' 
said Christian, still trembling. And then, her courage 
breaking down under a cruel sense of wrong, “ Why can 
not you see that I am weak and worn out, longing for a 


Christian''s Mistake. 


119 


little peace, and I can not get it? I never did you any 
harm—it is not my fault that you hate me. Why will 
you hunt me down and wear my life out, while I bear it 
all alone, and have never told my husband one single 
word ? It is cruel of you—cruel.” 

She sobbed, till Arthur’s sudden waking up—he had 
been fast asleep on the sofa, or she might not have given 
w^ay so much—compelled her to restrain herself. 

Miss Gascoigne was moved—at least as much as was in 
her nature to be. She said hastily, “ There—there—we 
will say no more about it;” took up her work, and bus¬ 
ied herself therewith. 

For Aunt Maria, she did as she had been doing through¬ 
out the contest — the only thing Aunt Maria ever had 
strength to do—she remained neutral and passive—cried, 
and knitted—knitted and cried. 

So sat together these three women—all good women 
in their way, who meant well, and might have lived to 
be a comfort to one another. Yet, as it was, they only 
seemed to live for one another’s mutual annoyance, irri¬ 
tation, and pain. 

A thunder-storm sometimes clears the air; and the pas¬ 
sion of resistance into which Christian had been goaded 
apparently cooled the family atmosphere for a few days. 
But she herself felt only a dead-weight—a heavy chill— 
which lay on her heart long after the storm was spent. 

For the “ gentleman” and his rude remark—if indeed 
he had made it, which she more than doubted, aware how 
Miss Gascoigne, like all people who can only see things 
from the stand-point of their own individuality, was some¬ 
what given to exaggeration—Christian heeded him not. 


120 


Christian's Mistake. 


The world might talk as it chose; she knew her husband 
loved her, and that he had married her for love. 

And her boy loved her too, and needed her sorely, as 
he would need for many a long day yet. It would take 
a whole year. Dr. Anstruther said, before the injury to 
the lung was quite recovered, and all fear of Arthur’s 
falling into confirmed ill health removed. 

Thus duties, sweet as strong, kept continually weav¬ 
ing themselves about her once forlorn life; binding her 
fast, it is true, but in such pleasant bonds that she never 
wished them broken. Every day she grew safer and hap¬ 
pier ; and every day, as she looked on Dr. Grey’s kind, 
good face, which familiarity was making almost beauti¬ 
ful, she felt thankful that—whether she loved it or only 
liked it—she should have it beside her all her days. 


Christian^s Mistake, 


121 


CHAPTER VI. 

‘And do the hours slip fast or slow, 

And are ye sad or gay ? 

And is your heart with your liege lord, lady. 

Or is it far away ?’ 

“The lady raised her calm, proud head. 

Though her tears fell one by one: 

‘ Life counts not hours by joys or pangs, 

But just by duties done. 

“ ‘And when I lie in the green kirk-yard. 

With the mould upon my breast. 

Say not that “ She did well or ill,” 

Only, “ She did her best.”’ ’* 

A DAY or two after this, Christian, returning from her 
daily walk, which was now brief enough, and never be¬ 
yond the college precincts, met a strange face at the 
Lodge door—that is, a face not exactly strange; she 
seemed to have seen it before, but could not recollect 
how or where. Then she recalled it as that of a young 
daily governess, her predecessor at the Fergusons’, who 
had left them “to better herself,” as she said—and de¬ 
cidedly to the bettering of her pupils. 

Miss Susan Bennett—as Christian had soon discover¬ 
ed, both pupils and parents being very loquacious on the 
subject—was one of those governesses whom one meets 
in hopeless numbers among middle-class families—girls, 
F 


122 


Christia7i's Mistake. 


daughters of clerks or petty shopkeepers, above domestic 
service, and ashamed or afraid of any other occupation, 
which, indeed, is only too difficult to be found, whereby 
half-educated or not particularly clever young women 
may earn their bread. They therefore take to teaching 
as “ genteel,” and as being rather an elevation than not 
from the class in which they were born. Obliged to 
work, though they would probably rather be idle, they 
consider governessing the easiest kind of work, and use 
it only as a means to an end; which, if they have pret¬ 
ty faces and tolerable manners, is—human nature being 
weak, and life only too hard, poor girls!—most probably 
matrimony. 

But governesses, pursuing their calling on this princi¬ 
ple, are the dead-weight which drags down their whole 
class. Half educated, lazy, unconscientious, with neither 
the working faculty of a common servant, nor the tastes 
and feelings of a lady, they do harm wherever they go; 
they neither win respect nor deserve it; and the best 
thing that could befall them would be to be swept down, 
by hundreds, a step lower in the scale of society—made 
to use their hands instead of their heads, or, at any rate, 
to learn themselves instead of attempting to teach others. 

Christian—who, though chiefly self-taught, except in 
music, was a well-educated woman, and a most conscien¬ 
tious teacher—had been caused a world of trouble in un¬ 
doing what her predecessor had done; and in the few 
times that the little Fergusons had met in the street their 
former instructress, who was a very good-looking and 
showy girl, she had not been too favorably impressed 
with Miss Bennett. But when she saw her coming out 


Christianas Mistake. 


123 


of the Lodge door, rather shabbier than beforetime, the 
March wind whistling through her thin, tawdry shawl, 
and making her pretty face look pinched and blue, Mrs. 
Grey, contrasting the comforts of her own life with that 
of the poor governess, felt compassionately toward her: 
so much so, that, though wondering what could possibly 
be her business at the Lodge, she assumed the mistress’s 
kindly part, and bowed to her in passing, which Miss 
Bennett was in too great a hurry either to notice or re‘ 
turn. 

“Has that lady been calling here?” she asked of Phil¬ 
lis, whom she met bringing in Oliver from his afternoon 
walk. 

“Lady!” repeated Phillis, scornfully, “she’s only the 
governess.” 

“ The governess 1” 

“ Lor 1 didn’t you know it, ma’am ? And she coming 
to Miss Letitia every day for this week past!” and Phil¬ 
lis gleamed all over with malicious satisfaction that her 
mistress did not know it, and might naturally feel an¬ 
noyed and offended thereat. 

Annoyed Mrs. Grey certainly was, but she was not 
readily offended. Her feeling was more that of extreme 
vexation at the introduction here of the very last person 
whom she would desire to see Letitia’s governess, and a 
vague wonder as to how much Dr. Grey knew about the 
matter. Of course, engrossed as she was with the charge 
of Arthur, it was quite possible that, to save her trouble, 
he and his sisters might have arranged it all. Only she 
wished she had been told—merely told about it. 

Any little pain, however, died out when, on entering 


124 


Christian's Mistake. 


the drawing-room, she caught the warm delight of Ar¬ 
thur’s eyes, turning to her as eagerly as if she had been 
absent from him a week instead of half an hour. 

“ Oh, mother, I am so tired! Here have I been lying 
on this sofa, and Titia and somebody else—a great, big, 
red-cheeked woman—Titia says she isn’t a lady, and I 
must not call her so—have been strum-strumming on 
your pretty piano, and laughing and whispering between 
whiles. They bother me so. Please don’t let them come 
again.” 

Christian promised to try and modify things a little. 

“ But she must come and practice here, Arthur. She 
is Miss Bennett—Titia’s governess.” 

“Governess — a nice governess! Why, she hardly 
teaches her a bit. They were chattering the whole time; 
and I heard them plan to meet in Walnut-tree Court at 
five o’clock every evening, and go a walk with a gentle¬ 
man—a kind gentleman, who would give Titia as many 
sweet things as ever she could eat.” 

Mrs. Grey stood aghast. This was the sort of thing 
that had gone on—or would have gone on if not discov¬ 
ered—with the Little Fergusons. 

“ Are you sure of this, Arthur? If so, I must ring for 
Phillis at once.” 

“ Oh don’t—please don’t. Phillis will only fly into a 
passion and beat her—poor Titia I I’m very sorry I told 
of her. I wouldn’t be a sneak if I could help it.” 

“My dear boy I” said Christian, fondly. “Well, I will 
not speak about it just yet, and certainly not to Phillis. 
Lie here till I see if Titia is still in the nursery. It is 
just five o’clock.” 


Christianas Mistake. 


125 


Yes, there the little damsel was, sitting as prim as pos¬ 
sible over a book, looking the picture of industry and in¬ 
nocence. 

Miss Bennett has left for the day, has she not, Titia? 
You are not going out with her, or going out again at all ?” 

“ No,” said Titia, with her head bent down. 

It was always Christian’s belief—and practice—that \r 
accuse a child, unproved, of telling a lie, was next to sug 
gesting that lies should be told. She always took truth 
for granted until she had unequivocal evidence to the 
contrary. 

“Very well,” she said, kindly. “Is that a nice book 
you have? ‘Arabian Nights?’ Then sit and read it 
quietly till you go to bed. Good-night, my dear.” 

She kissed her, which was always a slight effort; it 
was hard work loving Titia, who was so cold and prim, 
and unchildlike, with so little responsiveness in her na¬ 
ture. 

“I hope all is safe for to-day,” thought Christian, anx¬ 
iously, and determined to speak to Titia’s father the first 
opportunity. He was dining in Hall to-day, and after¬ 
ward they were to go to the long-delayed entertainment 
at the vice chancellor’s, which was to inaugurate her en¬ 
trance into Avonsbridge society. 

Miss Gascoigne was full of it; and during all the time 
that the three ladies were dining together, she talked in¬ 
cessantly, so that, even had she wished, Mrs. Grey could 
not have got in a single word of inquiry concerning Miss 
Bennett. She, however, judged it best to wait quietly 
till the cloth was removed and Barker vanished. 

Christian was not what is termed a “transparent” char 


126 


Christianas Mistake. 


acter; that is, she could “keep herself to herself,” as th& 
phrase is, better than most people. It was partly from 
habit, having lived so long in what was worse than loneli¬ 
ness, under circumstances when she was obliged to main¬ 
tain the utmost and most cautious silence upon every 
thing, and partly because her own strong nature prevent¬ 
ed the necessity of letting her mind and feelings bubble 
over on all occasions and to every body, as is the manner 
of weaker but yet very amiable women. But, on the oth¬ 
er hand, though she could keep a secret sacredly, rigid¬ 
ly—so rigidly as to prevent people’s even guessing that 
there was a secret to be kept, she disliked unnecessary 
mysteries and small deceptions exceedingly. She saw 
no use and no good in them. They seemed to her only 
the petty follies of petty minds. She had no patience 
with them, and would take no trouble about them. 

So, as soon as the ladies were alone, she said to Miss 
Gascoigne outright, without showing either hesitation or 
annoyance, 

“I met Miss Bennett in the hall to-day. Why did 
you not tell me that you and Aunt Maria had chosen a 
governess for Letitia ?” 

Sometimes nothing puzzles very clever people so much 
as a piece of direct simplicity. Aunt Henrietta actually 
blushed. 

“Chosen a governess? Well, so we did. We were 
obliged to do it. And you were so much occupied with 
Arthur. Indeed, I must say,” recovering herself from 
the defensive into the offensive position, “ that the way 
you made yourself a perfect slave to that child, to the 
neglect of all your other duties, was—” 


Christianas Mistake. 


12V 


“Never mind that now, please. Just tell me about 
Miss Bennett. When did she come, and how did you 
hear of her?” 

She spoke quite gently, in mere inquiry; she was so 
anxious neither to give nor to take offense, if it could 
possibly be avoided. She bore always in mind a sen¬ 
tence her husband had once quoted—and, though a cler¬ 
gyman, he did not often quote the Bible, he only lived 
it: “As much as in you lieth, live peaceably with all 
men.” But she sometimes wondered, with a kind of sad 
satire, whether the same could ever, under any circum¬ 
stances, be done with all women. 

Alas! not with these, or rather this woman. Aunt Ma¬ 
ria being merely the adjective of that very determined 
substantive. Aunt Henrietta. She braced herself to the 
battle immediately. 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Grey; but I can not see what right 
you have to question me, or I to answer. Ami not ca¬ 
pable of the management of my own sister’s children, 
who have been under my care ever since she died, and in 
whom I never supposed you would take the slightest in¬ 
terest?” 

This after her charge of Arthur—when she had nursed 
the child back to life again, and knew that he still de¬ 
pended upon her for every thing in life! But, knowing 
it was so, the secret truth was sweet enough to sustain her 
under any heap of falsehoods—opposing falsehoods too, 
directly contradicting one another; but Miss Gascoigne 
never paused to consider that Lax-tongued people sel¬ 
dom do. 

“I will not question the point of my interest in the 


128 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


children. If I can not prove it in other ways than words, 
the latter would be very useless. All I wish to say is, 
that I should like to have been consulted before any thing 
was decided as to a governess. And I am afraid Miss 
Bennett is not exactly the person I should have chosen.” 

“Indeed! And pray why not, may I ask? She is a 
most respectable person—a person who knows her place. 
I am sure the deference with which she treats me, the at¬ 
tention with which she listens to all my suggestions, have 
given me the utmost confidence in the young woman; 
all the more, because, I repeat, she knows her place. She 
is content to be a governess, she never pretends to be a 
lady.” 

The insult was so pointed, so plain, that it could not be 
passed over. 

Christian rose from her seat “ Miss Gascoigne, seeing 
that I am here at the head of my husband’s table, I must 
request you to be a little more guarded in your conver¬ 
sation. I, too, have been a governess, but it never occur¬ 
red to me that I was otherwise than a lady.” 

There was a dead silence, during which poor Aunt 
Maria cast imploring looks at Aunt Henrietta, who per¬ 
haps felt that she had gone too far, for she muttered some 
vague apology about “ different people being different in 
their ways.” 

“ Exactly so; and what I meant to observe was, that 
my chief reason for*doubting Miss Bennett’s fitness to in¬ 
struct Titia is what you yourself allow. If she is ‘ not a 
lady,’ how can you expect her to make a lady of our lit' 
tie girl?” 

“ Our little girl!” 


Christian's Mistake. 


129 


Yes, our”—the choking tears came as far as Chris¬ 
tian’s throat, and then were swallowed down again. “ My 
little girl, if you will; for she is mine—my husband’s 
daughter; and I wish to see her grow up every thing 
that his daughter ought to be. I say again, I ought to 
have been consulted in the choice of her governess.” 

She stopped, for, accidentally looking out of the win 
dow, where the lengthened spring twilight still lingered 
in the cloisters, she fancied she saw creeping from pillar 
to pillar a child’s figure; could it possibly be Titia’s ? 
Yes, it certainly was Titia herself, stealing through two 
sides of the quadrangle, and under the archway that led 
to Walnut-tree Court 

Without saying a word to the aunts—for she would 
not have accused any body, a child, or even a servant, 
upon any thing short of absolute proof—Christian went 
up to her room, from the window of which she could 
see into Walnut-tree Court. There, walking round and 
round, in the solitude which at this hour was customary 
in most colleges, she distinguished, dim as the light was, 
three figures—a man, a woman, and a child; in all prob¬ 
ability, Miss Bennett, her lover, and Titia, whom, with a 
mixture of cunning and short-sightedness, she had in¬ 
duced to play propriety, in case any discovery should be 
made. 

Still, the light was too faint to make their identity sure; 
and to send a servant after them on mere suspicion would 
only bring trouble upon poor little Titia, besides disgrac¬ 
ing, in the last manner in which any generous woman 
would wish to disgrace another woman, the poor friend¬ 
less governess, who, after all, might only be taking an 
F 2 


130 


Christianas Mistake. 


honest evening walk with her own honest lover, as every 
young woman has a perfect right to do. 

“ And love is so sweet, and life so bitter! I’ll not be 
hard upon her, poor girl 1” thought Christian, with a faint 
sigh. “ Whatever is done I will do myself, and then it 
can injure nobody.” 

So she put on shawl and bonnet, and was just slipping 
out at the hall door, rather thankful that Barker was ab¬ 
sent from his post, when she met Titia creeping stealthily 
in, not at the front door, but at the glass door, which led 
to the garden behind; to which garden there was only 
one other entrance, a little door leading into Walnut-tree 
Court, and of this door Barker usually kept the key. 
Now, however, it hung from the little girl’s hand, the poor 
frightened creature, who, the minute she saw her step¬ 
mother, tried to run away up stairs. 

“ Titia, come back ! Tell me where you have been, 
without Phillis or any body, and when I desired you not 
to go out again.” 

“ It was only to—to fetch a crocus for Atty.” 

“Where is the crocus?” 

“ I—dropped it.” 

“ And this key. What did you want with the key ?” 

“ I—I don’t know.” 

The lies failed, if they were lies; but perhaps they 
might have been partly true: the child hung her head 
and began to whimper. She was not quite hardened, 
then. 

“Come here to me,” said Christian, sadly and gravely, 
leading her to the glass door, so that what light there 
was could shine upon her face; “let me look if you have 


Christianas Mistake. 


131 


been telling me the truth. Don’t be afraid; if you have 
I will not punish you. I will not be hard upon you in 
any case, if you will only speak the truth. Titia, a little 
girl like you has no business to be creeping in and out 
of her papa’s house like a thief. Tell at once, where 
have you been, and who was with you ?” 

The child burst out crying. “ I daren’t tell, or Phillis 
will beat me. She said she would if I stirred an inch 
from the nursery, while she went down to have tea with 
cook and Barker. And I thought I might just run for 
ten minutes to see Miss Bennett, who wanted me so.” 

“You were with Miss Bennett, then? Any body 
else?” 

“Only a gentleman,” said Letitia, hanging her head 
and blushing with that painful precocity of conscious* 
ness so sad to see in a little girl. 

“What was his name?” 

“I don’t know. Miss Bennett didn’t tell me. She 
only said he was a friend of hers, who liked little girls, 
and that if I could come and have a walk with them, 
without telling Phillis or any body, she would let me off 
all the hardest of my French lessons. And so—and so 
—Oh, hide me, there’s papa at the hall door, and Aunt 
Ilenrietta coming out of the dining-room. And Aunt 
Henrietta never believes what I say, even if I tell her 
the truth. Oh, let me run—let me run.” 

The child’s terror was so uncontrollable that there was 
nothing for it but to yield; and she fled. 

“Titia! Titia!” called out her father. “Christian, 
what is the matter? What was my little girl crying 
for?” 


132 


Christiaii^s Mistake. 


There was no avoiding the domestic catastrophe, even 
had Christian wished to avoid it, which she did not 
She felt it was a case in which concealment was impos¬ 
sible—wrong. Dr. Grey ought to be told, and Miss Gas¬ 
coigne likewise. 

“ Your little girl has been very naughty, papa; but 
others have been more to blame than she. Come with 
me — will you come too. Aunt Henrietta?—and I will 
tell you all about it” 

She did so, as briefly as she could, and in telling it she 
discovered one fact—which she passed over, and yet it 
made her glad—that Dr. Grey, like herself, had been 
kept wholly in the dark about the engagement of Miss 
Bennett as governess. 

“ I meant to have told you to-day, though, after I had 
given her sufficient trial,” said Miss Gascoigne, sullenly: 
“ I had with her the best of recommendations, and I do 
not believe one word of all this story—that is,” waking 
up to the full meaning of what she was sajdng, “not 
without the most conclusive evidence.” 

“ Evidence I” repeated Dr. Grey. “You have my 
wife’s word, and my daughter’s.” 

“Your daughter is the most arrant little liar I ever 
knew!” 

The poor father shrank back. Perhaps he knew, by 
sad experience, that Aunt Henrietta’s condemnation was 
not altogether without foundation. His look expressed 
such unutterable pain that Christian came forward and 
spoke out strongly, almost angrily. 

“ It is fear that makes a liar, even as harshness and 
injustice create deceit and underhandedness. Love a 


Christian's Mistake. 


133 


child and trust it, and if it does wrong, punish it neither 
cruelly nor unfairly, and it will never tell falsehoods. 
Titia will not—she shall not, as long as I am alive to 
keep her to the truth.” 

Dr. Grey looked fondly at his wife’s young, glowing 
face; and even Miss Gascoigne, the hard, worldly wom¬ 
an, viewing all things in her narrow, worldly way, was 
silenced for the time. Then she began again, pouring 
out a torrent of explanations and self-exculpations, which 
soon resolved themselves into the simple question, What 
was to be done ? There—she ended. 

“Don’t ask me to do any thing. I will not. I wash 
my hands of the whole matter. If the story be true, and 
Miss Bennett can be guilty of conduct so indecorous, it 
would never do for me to be mixed up in such an im¬ 
proper proceednig; and if untrue, and I accused her of 
it, I should find myself in a very unpleasant position. 
So. Mrs. Grey, since you have interfered in this matter, 
you must carry it out on your own responsibility. If 
you have taken a grudge against Miss Bennett—which I 
did not expect, considering your own antecedents—you 
must just do as you like concerning her. But, bless me! 
how the evening is slipping by! Come, Maria, I shall 
hardly have time to dress for the vice chancellor’s.” 

So saying. Miss Gascoigne swept away, her silk skirts 
flowing behind her. Aunt Maria followed, with one pa¬ 
thetic glance at “ dear Arnoldand the husband and 
wife were left alone. 

Dr. Grey threw himself into his arm-chair, and there 
came across his face the weary look, which Christian had 
of late learned to notice, indicating that he was no more 


134 


Christian's Mistake. 


a young man, and that his life had been longer in trials 
than even in years. 

“ My dear, I wish you women-kind could settle these 
domestic troubles among yourselves. We men have so 
many outside worries to contend with. It is rather hard!” 

It was hard. Christian reproached herself almost as 
if she had been the primary cause of this, the first com¬ 
plaint she had ever heard him make, and which he 
seemed immediately to regret having allowed to escape 
him. 

“I don’t mean, my dear wife, that you should not have 
told me this; indeed, it was impossible to keep it from 
me. It all springs from Aunt Henrietta. I wish she— 
But she is Aunt Henrietta, and we must just make the 
best of her, as I have done for nearly twenty years.” 

“ And why did you ?” rose irrepressibly to Chris¬ 
tian’s lips. The sense of wild resistance to injustice 
and wrong, so strong in youth, -was still not beaten 
down. It roused in her something very like fierceness 
—these gentle creatures can be fierce sometimes—to see 
a good man like Dr. Grey trodden down and domineered 
over by this narrow-minded, bad-tempered woman. “ I 
often wonder at your patience, and at all you forgive.” 

“Seventy times seven,” was the quiet answer. And 
Christian became silenced and grave. “Still,” he added, 
smiling, “a sin against one’s self does not include a sin 
against another. The next time Henrietta speaks as she 
spoke to you just now, she and I will have a very serious 
quarrel.” 

“Oh no, no! Not for my sake. I had rather die than 
bring dissension into this house.” 


Christianas Mistake. 


135 


“ My poor child, people can not die so easily. They 
have to live on and endure. But what were we talking 
about ? for I forget: I believe I do forget things some¬ 
times and he passed his hand over his forehead. “ I 
am not so young as you, my dear; and, though my life 
has looked smooth enough outside, there has been a good 
deal of trouble in it. In truth,” he added, “I have had 
some vexatious things perplexing me to-day, which must 
excuse my being so dull and disagreeable.” 

“Disagreeable!” echoed Christian, with a little forced 
sort of laugh, adding, in a strange, soft shyness, “ I wish 
you would tell me what those vexatious things were. 
I know I am young, and foolish enough too; still, if I 
could help 3 ^ou—” 

“Help me!” He looked at her eagerly, then shook 
his head and sighed. “ No, my child, you can not help 
me. It is other people’s business, which I am afraid I 
have no right to tell even to you. It is only that a per¬ 
son has come back to Avonsbridge, who, if I could sup¬ 
pose I had an enemy in the world—But here I am tell- 
ing you.” 

“Never mind, you shall tell me no more,” said Chris¬ 
tian, cheerily, “ especially as I do not believe that in the 
wide world you could have an enemy. And now give 
me your opinion as to this matter of Miss Bennett.” 

“First, what is yours?” 

Christian pondered a little. “ It seems to me that the 
only thing is for me to speak to her myself, quite openly 
and plainly, when she comes to morrow.” 

“And then dismiss her?” 

“I fear so.” 


130 


Christian^ Mistake, 


“For having a lover?” said Dr. Grey, with an amused 
twinkle in his eye. 

“Not exactly, but for telling Titia about it, and mak¬ 
ing use of the child for her own selfish needs. Do you 
consider me hard ? Well, it is because I know what this 
ends in. Miss Gascoigne does not see it, but I do. She 
only thinks of ‘ propriety.’ I think of something far 
deeper—a girl’s first notions about those sort of things. 
It is cruel to meddle with them before their time—to 
take the bloom off the peach and the scent off the rose; 
to put worldliness instead of innocence, and conceited fol¬ 
ly instead of simple, solemn, awful love. I would rather 
die, even now—you will think I am always ready for dy¬ 
ing—but I would rather die than live to think and feel 
about love like some women—ay, and not bad women 
either, whom I have known.” 

Mrs. Grey had gone on, hardly considering what she 
was saying or to what it referred, till she was startled to 
feel fixed upon her her husband’s earnest eyes. 

“You need not be afraid,” said he, smiling. “Chris¬ 
tian, shall I tell you a little secret? Do you know why 
loved you ? Because you are unlike all other women 
—because you bring back to me the dreams of my youth. 
And here,” suddenly rising, as if he feared he had said 
too much, “we must put dreams aside, and arguments 
likewise, for Aunt Henrietta will never forgive us if we 
are late at this terrible evening party 


Christian's Mistake. 


137 


CHAPTER VIL 

“ Down, pale ghost! 

What doest thou here ? 

The sky is cloudless overhead. 

The stream runs clear. 

“ I drowned thee, ghost, 

In a river of bitter brine: 

With whatever face thou risest up, 

Meet thou not mine! 

Back, poor ghost! 

Dead of thy own decay: 

Let the dead bury their dead! 

I go my way ” 

While she was dressing for it, the evening party 
ceased to be terrible even in Christian’s imagination. 
She kept thinking over and over the talk she had had 
with Dr Grey ; what he had said, and what she had said, 
of which she was a little ashamed, now that her impetu¬ 
ous impulse had faded. Yet why ? Why should she 
not speak out her heart to her own husband ? It began 
to be less difficult so to do; for, though he did not an¬ 
swer much, he never misunderstood her, never respond¬ 
ed with those sharp, cold, altogether wide-of-the-mark ob¬ 
servations which, in talking with Miss Gascoigne or Miss 
Grey, made her feel that they and she looked at things 
from points of view as opposite as the poles. 

“ They can’t help that; neither, I am sure, can I,” she 


138 


Christian's Mistake. 


often thought. And yet how, thus diverse, they should 
all live under the same roof together for months and 
years to come, was more than Christian could conceive. 

Besides, now, she had at times a new feeling—a wish 
to have her husband all to herself. She ceased to need 
the “ shadowy third”—the invisible barricade against to¬ 
tal dual solitude made by aunts or children. She would 
have been glad sometimes to send them all away, and 
spend a quiet evening hour, such as the last one, alone 
with Dr. Grey. It was so pleasant to talk to him—so 
comfortable. The comfort of it lasted in her heart all 
through her elaborate dressing, which was rather more 
weariness to her than to most young women of her age. 

Letitia assisted thereat—poor Titial who, being sent 
for, had crept down to her step-mother’s room, very 
humble and frightened, and received a few tender, seri¬ 
ous words—not many, for the white face was sodden 
with crying, and there was a sullen look upon it which 
not all Christian’s gentleness could chase away. Phillis 
had discovered her absence, and had punished her; not 
with whipping, that was forbidden, but with some of the 
innumerable nursery tyrannies which Phillis called gov¬ 
ernment. And Titia evidently thought, with the suspi¬ 
ciousness of all weak, cowed creatures, that Mrs. Grey 
must have had some hand in it—that she had broken 
her promise, and betrayed her to this punishment. 

She stood aloof, poor little girl, tacitly doing as she 
was bidden, and acquiescing in every thing, with her 
thin lips pressed into that hopeless line, or now and then 
opening to give vent to sharp, unchildlike speech£s, so 
exceedingly like Aunt Henrietta’s. 


Christian's Mistake. 


139 


“Those are very pretty bracelets, but yours are not 
nearly so big as poor mamma’s, and you don’t wear half 
so many.” 

Was it that inherent feminine quality, tact or spite, ac¬ 
cording as it is used, which teaches women to find out, 
and either avoid or wound one another’s sore places, 
which made the little girl so often refer to “ poor mam¬ 
ma?” Or had she been taught to do it? 

Christian could not tell. But it had to be borne, and 
she was learning how to bear it. She answered kindly, 

“Probably 1 do wear fewer ornaments than your mam¬ 
ma did, for she was rich, and I was poor. Indeed, I have 
no ornaments to wear except what your papa has given 
me.” 

“ He gives you lots of things, doesn’t he ? Every thing 
you have?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you like his doing it?” 

“Very much indeed.” 

“Then was that the reason you married him? Aunt 
Henrietta said it was.” 

Christian’s blood boiled. And yet Letitia only repeat¬ 
ed what she had been told. 

“My child,” she said, feeling that now was the time to 
speak, and that the truth must be spoken even to a child, 
“your aunt Henrietta makes a great mistake. She says 
and believes what is not true. I married your papa be¬ 
cause I”—(oh that she could have said “ loved him!”)— 
“ I thought him the best man in the world. And so he 
is, as we all know well. Don’t we, Arthur?” 

“ Hurrah I Three cheers for papa! The jolliest papa 


140 


Christianas Mistake. 


that ever was!” cried Arthur from the sofa, where, by his 
own special desire, he lay watching the end of the toilet 

Letitia was too ladylike to commit herself to much en¬ 
thusiasm, but she smiled. If there was a warm place in 
that poor little frigid heart, papa certainly had it, as in 
every heart belonging to him. 

“ You look quite pretty,” said she, condescendingly. 
“ Some day when you go to parties you’ll dress me and 
make me look pretty too, and take me with you ? You 
won’t keep me shut up in the nursery till 1 am quite old, 
as Phillis says you will ?” 

“Did Phillis say that?” Christian answered, with a 
sore sinking of the heart at the utter impossibility that 
under such influences these children should ever learn 
to love her. 

“ Phillis is a fool,” cried Arthur, angrily. “ When I 
get well again, if ever she says one word to me of the 
things she used to say about mother, won’t I pitch into 
her, that’s all 1” 

Christian smiled—a rather sad smile, but she thought 
it best to take no notice, and soon Phillis came and 
fetched the two away. 

After they were gone the young step-mother stood by 
her bedroom fire, thinking anxiously of these her chil¬ 
dren, turning over in her mind plan after plan as to how 
she should make them love her. But it seemed a very 
hopeless task still. 

She looked into the blazing coals, and then began 
playing with a little chimney-piece ornament showing 
the day of the month—21st of March. 

Could it be possible that she had been married three 


Christian^ Mistake. 


141 


months ? Three months since that momentous day 
when her solitary, self-contained life was swept out of 
the narrow boundaries of self forever—made full and 
busy, ay, and bright too ? For it was not a sad face, far 
from it, which met her in the mirror above; it was a 
face radiant with youth and health, and the soft peace¬ 
fulness which alone gives a kind of beauty. 

Well, so best I She had not expected this, but she did 
not wish it otherwise. 

The clock struck eight. She was, after all, ready too 
soon; so she wrapped her white opera cloak around her, 
and went down to the drawing-room. To pass the time, 
she thought she would sing a little, as indeed she now 
made a point of doing daily, and would have done, 
whether she cared for it or not, if only out of grati¬ 
tude to the love which had delighted itself in giving 
her pleasure. 

But she did care for it. Nothing, nobody, could 
quench the artist nature which, the instant the heavy 
weight of sorrow was taken away, sprang up like a liv¬ 
ing fountain in this girl’s soul. She sang, quite alone in 
the room, but with such a keen delight, such a perfect 
absorption of enjoyment, that she never noticed her hus¬ 
band’s entrance till he had stood for some minutes be¬ 
hind her chair. When he touched her she started, then 
smiled. 

“Oh, it is only you 1” 

“ Only me. Did I trouble you ?” 

“Oh no; was I not troubling you?” 

“How, my dear?” 

Christian could not tell. Anyhow she found it impos- 


142 


Christianas Mistake. 


sible to explain^ except that she had fancied he did not 
care for music. 

“Perhaps I do, perhaps I don’t. But I care for you. 
Tell me,” he sat down and took her hand, “does not Ar¬ 
thur’s ‘ bird’ sometimes feel a little like a bird in a cage ? 
Do you not wish you lived in the world—in London, 
where you could go to concerts and balls, instead of be¬ 
ing shut up in a dull college with an old bookworm like 
me?” 

“Dr. Grey! Papa!” 

“Don’t look hurt, my darling. But confess; isn’t it 
sometimes so?” 

“No! a thousand times no! Who has been putting 
such things into your head, for they never would come 
of themselves? It is wicked—wicked, and you should 
not heed them.” 

The tears burst from her eyes, to her husband’s un- 
disguised astonishment. He appeared so exceedingly 
grieved that she controlled herself as soon as she could, 
for his sake. 

“I did not mean to be naughty. But you should re¬ 
member I am still only a girl—a poor, helpless, half- 
formed girl, who never had any body to teach her any 
thing, who is trying so hard to be good, only they will 
not let me!” 

“Who do you mean by they?” 

No, he evidently had not the slightest idea how bitter 
was the daily household struggle, the petty guerrilla war¬ 
fare which she had to bear. And perhaps it was as well 
he should not. She would fight her own battles; she 
was strong enough now. It was a step-by-step advance, 


Christiari^s Mistake. 


143 


and all through an enemy’s country. Still, she had ad¬ 
vanced, and might go on to the end, if she only had 
strength and patience. 

“Hush! I hear Miss Gascoigne at the door. Please 
go and speak to her. Don’t let her see I have been cry¬ 
ing.” 

Of this, happily, there was little fear. Miss Gascoigne 
being too much absorbed in her own appearance, which 
really was very fine. Her black satin rustled, her black 
lace fell airily, and her whole figure was that of a hand¬ 
some, well-preserved, middle-aged gentlewoman. So 
pleased was she with herself that she was pleasant to ev¬ 
ery one else; and when, half an hour after. Dr. Grey en¬ 
tered the reception-rooms of St. Mary’s Lodge with his 
wife on one arm and his sister on the other, any specta¬ 
tor would have said, how very nice they all looked; 
what a fortunate man he was, and what a happy family 
must be the family at Saint Bede’s. 

And, to her own surprise, when her first bewilderment 
was over, Christian really did feel happy. Her artistic 
temperament rejoiced in the mere beauty of the scene 
before her—a scene to be found nowhere out of Avons- 
bridge—lofty, grand old rooms, resplendent with innu¬ 
merable wax-lights; filled, but not too full, with an ever- 
moving, gorgeously-colored crowd. Quite different from 
that of ordinary soirdes, where the coup d’oeil is that of a 
bed of variegated flowers, with a tribe of black emmets 
poised on their hind legs inserted between. Here the 
gentlemen made as goodly a show as the ladies, or more 
so, many of them being in such picturesque costumes 
that they might have just stepped down from the old 


144 


Christianas Mistake. 


pictures wliicli covered tlie walls. Innumerable flowing 
gowns, of all shapes and colors, marked the college dons; 
then there were the gayly-clad gentlemen commoners, 
and two or three young noblemen, equally fine; while, 
painfully near the door, a few meek-looking undergradu¬ 
ates struggled under the high honor of the vice chancel¬ 
lor’s hospitality. 

As to the women, few were young, and none particu¬ 
larly lovely; yet Christian enjoyed looking at them. 
Actually, for the first time in her life, did she behold 
“full dress”—the sparkle of diamonds, the delicate beau¬ 
ty of old point lace, the rustle of gorgeous silks and sat¬ 
ins. She liked it—childishly liked it. It was a piece 
of art—a picture, in the interest of which her own part 
therein was utterly and satisfactorily forgotten. She was 
so amused with watching other people that she never 
thought whether other people were watching her; and 
when, after half an hour’s disappearance among a crowd 
of gentlemen, her husband came up and asked her if she 
were enjoying herself, she answered “ Oh, so much!” 
with an ardor that made him smile. 

And she did enjoy herself, even though a good many 
people were brought up to her and introduced, and by 
their not too brilliant remarks on it somewhat tarnished 
the brilliancy of the scene. But also she had some pleas¬ 
ant conversation with people far greater, and grander, and 
cleverer than she had ever met in her life; who, never¬ 
theless, did not awe her at all, but led her on to talk, and 
to feel pleasure in talking; she being utterly unaware 
that her simple unconsciousness was making her ten 
times more charming, more beautiful than before, and 



Christia7i^s Mistake. 


145 


that round the room were passing and repassing innu¬ 
merable flattering comments on the young wife of the 
Master of Saint Bede’s. 

Only she thought once or twice, with an amused won¬ 
der, which had yet some sadness in it, how little these 
people would have thought of her a year before—how 
completely they would ignore her now if she were not 
Dr. Grey’s wife. And there came into her heart such a 
gush of—gratitude was it?—to that good man who had 
loved her just as she was—poor Christian Oakleys gov¬ 
erness and orphan—in that saddest state of orphanage 
which is conscious that all the world would say she had 
need to be thankful for the same. She looked round for 
her husband several times, but missing him—and it felt 
a want, among all those strange faces—she sat down by 
Miss Gascoigne, who, taking the turn of the tide, now pa¬ 
tronized “my sister, Mrs. Grey,” in the most overwhelm¬ 
ing manner. 

It was after a whispered conference with Miss Gas¬ 
coigne that the wife of the vice chancellor, herself young 
and handsome, and lately married, came up to ask Chris¬ 
tian to sing. 

Then, poor girl! all her fears and doubts returned. 
To sing to a whole roomful of people—she had never 
done it in her life. It would be as bad as that nightmare 
fancy which used to haunt her, of being dragged forward 
to find the ten thousand eyes of a crowded theatre all 
focused upon her, a sensation almost as horrible as being 
under a burning-glass. 

“Oh no! not to-night. I would much rather not. In¬ 
deed, I can not sing.” 


140 


Christianas Mistake. 


“ May I beg to be allowed to deny that fact ?” said 
the gentleman—a young gentleman upon whose arm the 
hostess had crossed the room—of whom she, a stranger 
in Avonsbridge, knew only that he was a baronet and 
had fifteen thousand a year. 

“ Well, Sir Edwin, try if you can persuade her. Mrs. 
Grey, let me present to you Sir Edwin Uniacke.” 

It was so sudden, and the compulsion of the moment 
so extreme, that Christian stood calm as death—stood 
and bowed, and he bowed too, as in response to an ordi¬ 
nary introduction to a perfect stranger. She was quite 
certain afterward that she had not betrayed herself by 
any emotion; that, as seemed her only course, she had 
risen and walked straight to the piano, her fingers just 
touching Sir Edward’s offered arm; that she had seated 
herself, and begun mechanically to take off her gloves, 
without one single word having been exchanged between 
them. 

The young man took his place behind her chair. She 
never looked toward him—never paused to think how 
he had come there, or to wonder over the easy conscience 
of the world, which had readmitted him into the very so¬ 
ciety whence he had lately been ignominiously expelled. 
Her sole thought was that there was a song to be sung 
and she had to sing it, and go back as fast as she could 
into some safe hiding-place. Having accomplished thjs, 
she rose. 

“ Not yet, pray; one more song. Surely you know it 
—‘Love in thine eyes.’” 

As the voice behind her—a voice so horribly familiar, 
said this, Christian turned round. To ignore him was 


Christia7i's Mistake. 


147 


impossible; to betray, by the slightest sign, the quiver 
of fear, of indignation, which ran through all her frame, 
that, too, was equally impossible. One thing only pre* 
sented itself to her as to be done. She lifted up her 
cold, clear eyes, fixed them on him, and equally cold 
and clear her few commonplace words fell: 

“No, I thank you; I prefer not to sing any more to¬ 
night.” 

What answer was made, or how, still touching Sir Ed¬ 
win’s arm, she was piloted back through the crowd to 
Miss Gascoigne’s side, Christian had not the slightest rec¬ 
ollection either then or afterward; she only knew that 
she did it, and he did it, and that he then bowed politely 
and left her. 

So it was all over. They had met, she and her some¬ 
time lover, \iQV preux chevalier of a month—met, and she 
did not love him any more. Not an atom! All such 
feelings had been swept away, crushed out of existence 
by the total crushing of that respect and esteem without 
which no good woman can go on loving. At least no 
woman like Christian could. Call her not fickle, nor 
deem it unnatural for love so to perish. After learning 
what she had learned from absolute incontrovertible evi¬ 
dence (it is useless to enter into the circumstances, for no 
one is benefited by wallowing in unnecessary mire), that 
she, or an}^ virtuous maiden, should continue to love this 
man, would have been a thing still more unnatural—nay, 
wicked. 

No, she did not love him any more, she was quite sure 
of that. She watched his tall, elegant figure—he was as 
beautiful as Lucifer — moving about the rooms, and it 


148 


Christian's Mistake. 


seemed that his very face had grown ugly to her sight. 
She shivered to think that once—thank Grod, only once 1 
—his lips had pressed hers; that she had let him say to 
her fond words, and write to her fond letters, and had 
even written back to him others, which, if not exactly 
Jove-letters, were of the sort that no girl could write ex¬ 
cept to a man in whom she wholly believed — in his 
goodness and in his love for herself. 

What had become of those letters she had no idea; 
what was in them she hardly remembered; but the 
thought of them made her grow pale and tremble. In 
an agony of shame, as if all the world were pointing at 
her—at Dr. Grey’s wife—she hid herself in a corner, be¬ 
hind the voluminous presence of Miss Gascoigne, and sat 
waiting, counting minutes like hours till her husband 
should appear. 

He came at last, his kind face all beaming. 

“Christian, I have been having a long talk with — 
But you are very tired.” His eye caught—she knew it 
would at once—the change in her face. “ My darling,” 
he whispered, “ would you not like to go home?” 

“ Oh yes, home! Take me home!” Christian replied, 
almost with a sob. She clung to his arm, and passed 
through the crowd with him. And whether she fully 
loved him or not, from the very bottom of her soul she 
thanked God for her husband. 


Christian's Mistake, 


149 


CHAPTER YIII. 

Teach me to feel for others’ woe, 

To hide the fault I see; 

The mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me.” 

Breakfast was just over on the morning following 
the soir^ at the vice chancellor’s. Christian sat with the 
two aunts, quietly sewing. 

Ay, very quietly, even after last night. She had taken 
counsel with her own heart, through many wakeful hours, 
and grown calm and still. Neither her husband nor Miss 
Gascoigne had once named Sir Edwin. Probably Aunt 
Henrietta did not know him, and in the crowded party 
Dr. Grey might not have chanced to recognize him. In^ 
deed, most likely the young man would take every means 
of avoiding recognition from the master of his own col¬ 
lege, whence he had been ignominiously dismissed. His 
appearance at St. Mary’s Lodge was strange enough, and 
only to be accounted for by his having been invited by 
the vice chancellor’s ^^oung wife, who knew him only as 
Sir Edwin Uniacke, the rich young baronet. 

But, under shadow of these advantages, no doubt he 
could easily get into society again, even at Avonsbridge, 
and would soon be met every where. She might have 
to meet him—she, who knew what she did know about 
him, and who, though there had been no absolute en- 


150 


Christian''s Mistake. 


gagement between them, had suffered him to address her 
as a lover for four bright April weeks, ending in that 
thunderbolt of horror and pain, after which he never 
came again to the farm-house, and she never heard from 
him or of him one word more. 

Ought she to have told all this to her husband—was 
it her duty to tell him now? 

Again and again the question recurred to her, full of 
endless perplexities. She and Dr. Grey were not like 
two young people of equal years. Why trouble him, a 
man of middle age, with what he might think a silly, 
girlish love-story? and, above all, why wound him by 
what IS the sharpest pain to a loving heart, the sudden 
discovery of things hitherto concealed, but which ought 
to have been told long ago? He might feel it thus—c:)r 
thus—she could not tell; she did not, even yet, know 
him well enough to be quite sure. The misfortune of 
all hasty unions had been hers—she had to find out ev¬ 
ery thing after marriage. The sweet familiarity of long 
courtship, which makes peculiarities and faults excusa¬ 
ble, nay, dear, just because they are so familiar that the 
individual would not be himself or herself without them 
—this sacred guarantee for all wedded happiness had not 
been the lot of Christian Grey. 

Even now, though it was the mere ghost of a dead 
love, or dead fancy, which she had to confess to her hus¬ 
band, she shrank from confessing it. She would rather 
let it slip back to its natural Hades. 

This was the conclusion she came to when cold, clear 
daylight put to flight all the bewilderments and perplex¬ 
ities which had troubled her through the dark hours; 


Christian's Mistake, 


151 


and she sat at the head of her breakfast-table, with her 
own little circle around her—the circle which, with all 
its cares, became every day dearer and more satisfying, 
if only because it was her own. 

And when she looked across to the husband and fa¬ 
ther, sitting so content, with the morning sun lighting up 
his broad forehead — wrinkled, it is true, but still open 
and clear, the honest brow of an honest man — it was 
with a trembling gratitude that made religious every 
throb of Christian’s once half-heathen heart. The other 
man, with his bold eyes that made her shiver, the grasp 
of his hand from which her very soul recoiled—oh, thank 
God for having delivered her from him, and brought her 
into this haven of purity, peace, and love! 

As she stopped her needlework to cross to Arthur’s 
sofa—he insisted on being carried every where beside 
her, her poor, spoiled, sickly boy—as she arranged his 
pillows and playthings, and gave him a kiss or two, tak¬ 
ing about a dozen in return—she felt that the hardest 
duty, the most unrequited toil, in this her home, would 
be preferable to that dream of Paradise in which she 
had once indulged, and out of which she must inevitably 
have wakened to find it a living hell. 

The thanksgiving was still in her heart when she 
heard a ring at the hall bell, and remembered, with sud 
den compunction, that this was Miss Bennett’s hour, and 
that she had to speak to her about the very painful mat¬ 
ter which occurred yesterday. 

She had quite forgotten it till this minute, as was not 
surprising. Now, with an effort, she threw off all thoughts 
about herself; this business was far more important, and 


152 


Christianas Mistake. 


might involve most serious consequences to the young 
governess if obliged to be dismissed under circumstances 
which, unless Miss Gascoigne’s tongue could be stopped, 
would soon be parroted about to every lady in Avons- 
bridge. 

“Poor girl!’’ thought Christian, “she may never get 
another situation. And yet perhaps she has done noth¬ 
ing actually wrong—no worse wrong than many do— 
than I did!”—.she sighed—“in letting herself be made 
love to, and believing it all true, and sweet, and sacred, 
when it was all— But that is over now. And perhaps 
she has no friends any more than I had—no home to 
cling to, no mother to comfort her. Poor thing! I 
must be very tender over her—very careful what I say 
to her.” 

And following this intention, instead of sending for 
Miss Bennett into the dining-room, as Miss Gascoigne 
probably expected, for she sat in great state, determined 
to “come to the root of the matter,” as she expressed it, 
Mrs. Grey went out and met her in the hall. 

“You are the lady whom my sister-in-law engaged as 
governess?” 

“Yes, ma’am. And j^ou are Mrs. Grey?” peering at 
her with some curiosity; for, as every body knew every 
thing in Avonsbridge, no doubt Miss Bennett was per¬ 
fectly well aware that Dr. Grey’s j^oung wife was the ch 
devant governess at Mr. Ferguson’s. 

“ Will you walk up into my room? I wanted a word 
with you before lessons.” 

“ Certainly, Mrs. Grey. I hope you are quite satisfied 
with my instruction of Miss Grey. Indeed, my recom- 


Christia7i‘s Mistake. 


153 


mendations—as I told Miss Gascoigne—include some of 
the very first families—” 

“ I have no doubt Miss Gascoigne was satisfied,” inter¬ 
rupted Mrs. Grey, not quite liking the flippant manner, 
the showy style of dress, and the air, at once subservient 
and forward; in truth, something which, despite her pret¬ 
tiness, stamped the governess as underbred, exactly what 
Aunt Henrietta had said—“ not a lady.” “ Your quali¬ 
fications for teaching I have no wish to investigate; what 
[ have to speak about is a totally different thing.” 

Miss Bennett looked uneasy for a minute, but Chris¬ 
tian’s manner was so studiously polite, even kindly, that 
she seemed to think nothing could be seriously wrong. 
She sat down composedly on the crimson sofa, and began 
investigating, with admiring, curious, and rather envious 
eyes, the handsome room, half boudoir, half bedchamber. 

“Oh, Mrs. Grey, what a nice room this is! How you 
must enjoy it! It’s a hard life, teaching children.” 

“ It is a hard life, as I know, for I was once a govern¬ 
ess myself.” 

This admission, given so frankly, without the least hes¬ 
itation, evidently quite surprised Miss Bennett. With 
still greater curiosity than the fine room, she regarded 
the fine lady who had once been a governess, and was 
not ashamed to own it. 

“ Well, all I can say is, you have been very lucky in 
your marriage, Mrs. Grey; I only wish I might be the 
same.” 

“That is exactly—” said Christian, catching at any 
thing in her nervous difficulty as to how she should 
open such an unpleasant subject—“ no, not exactly, but 
G 2 


154 


Christiari's Mistake. 


partly, what I wished to speak to you about. Excuse a 
plain, almost rude question, which you can refuse to an¬ 
swer if you like; but. Miss Bennett, I should be very 
glad to know if you are engaged ?” 

“Engaged by Miss Gascoigne?” 

“No; engaged to be married.” 

Miss Bennett drew back, blushed a little, looked much 
annoyed, and answered sharply, apparently involuntari¬ 
ly, “No!” 

“ Then-'-excuse me again—I would not ask if I did 
not feel it absolutely my duty, in order that we may 
come to a right understanding—but the gentleman j^ou 
were walking with yesterday, when you asked Letitia to 
meet 3 ^ou in Walnut-tree Court, was he a brother, or 
cousin, or what?” 

Susan Bennett was altogether confounded. “ How did 
you find it all out? Did the child tell?—the horrid lit¬ 
tle—but of course she did. And then you set on and 
watched me! That was a nice trick for one lady to play 
another.” 

“You are mistaken,” replied Christian, gravely; “I 
found this out by the merest accident, and as I can not 
allow the child to do the same thing again, I thought it 
the most honest course to tell you at once of the discov¬ 
er}^ T made, and receive your explanations.” 

“You can’t get them; I have a perfect right to walk 
with whom I please.” 

“ Most certainly; but not to take Dr. Grey’s little 
daughter with you as a companion. Don’t you see. Miss 
Bennett”—feeling sorry for the shame and pain she fan¬ 
cied she must be inflicting—“how injurious these sort of 


Christian's MistaJce. 


155 


proceedings must be to a little girl, who ought to know 
nothing about love at all—(pardon my concluding this is 
a love affair)—till she comes to it seriously, earnestly, 
and at a fitting age? And then the deception, under¬ 
handedness—can not you see how wrong it was to make 
secret appointments with a child, and induce her to steal 
out of the house unknown to both nurse and mother?” 

“You are not her own mother, Mrs. Grey ; it don’t af¬ 
fect you.” 

“Pardon me,” returned Christian, very distantly, as 
she perceived her delicacy was altogether wasted upon 
this impertinent young woman, who appeared well able 
to hold her own under any circumstances, “it does alfect 
me so much that, deeply as I shall regret it, I must offer 
you a check for your three months’ salary. Your en¬ 
gagement, I believe was quarterly, and I must beg of 
you to consider it canceled.” 

Miss Bennett turned red and pale; the offensive tone 
sank into one pitifully weak and cringing. 

“Oh, Mrs. Gre}^! don’t be hard upon me; I’m a poor 
governess, doing my best, and father has a large family 
of us, and the shop isn’t as thriving as it was. Don’t 
turn me away, and I’ll never meet the young fellow 
again.” 

There was a little natural feeling visible through the 
ultra-humility of the girl’s manner, and when she took 
out a coarse but elaborately laced pocket-handkerchief, 
and wept upon it abundantly, Christian’s heart melted. 

“I am very sorry for you — very sorry indeed; but 
what can I do? Will you tell me candidly, are you en¬ 
gaged to this gentleman ?” 


156 


Christian's Mistake. 


“ No, not exactly; but I am sure I shall be by-and- 
by.” 

“He is your lover, then? he ought to be, if, as Letitia 
says, you go walking together every evening.” 

“Well, and if I do, it’s nobody’s business but my own, 
I suppose; and it’s very hard it should lose me my situ¬ 
ation.” 

So it was. Mrs. Grey remembered her own “young 
days,” as she now called them—remembered them with 
pity rather than shame; for she had done nothing wrong. 
She had deceived no one, only been herself deceived—in 
a very harmless fashion, just because, in her foolish, in¬ 
nocent heart, which knew nothing of the world and the 
world’s wiles, she thought no man would ever be so 
mean, so cowardly, as to tell a girl he loved her unless 
he meant it in the true, noble, knightly way—a lover 

“Who loved one woman, and who clave to her” 

—clave once and forever. A vague tenderness hung 
about those days yet, enough to make her cast the halo 
of her sympathy over even commonplace Susan Bennett. 

“Will you give me your confidence? Who is this 
friend of yours, and why does he not at once ask you 
for his wife? Perhaps he is poor, and can not afford to 
marry ?” 

“ Oh, dear me I I’m not so stupid as to think of a poor 
man. Bless you! he has a title and an estate too. If 1 
get him I shall make a splendid marriage.” 

Christian recoiled. Her sympathy was altogether 
thrown away. There evidently was not a point in com» 
mon between foolish Christian Oakley, taking dreamy 


Christimi's Mistake. 


157 


twilight saunters under the apple-trees—not alone; look¬ 
ing up to her companion as something between Sir 
Launcelot and the Angel Gabriel—and this girl, carry¬ 
ing on a clandestine flirtation, which she hoped would— 
and was determined to make—end.in a marriage, wdtli a 
young man much above her own station, and just be¬ 
cause he was so. As for loving him in the sense that 
Christian had understood love. Miss Bennett was utterly 
incapable of it. She never thought of love at all—only 
of matrimony. 

Still, the facts of the case boded ill. A wealthy young 
nobleman, and a pretty, but coarse and half-educated 
shopkeeper’s daughter—no good could come of the ac¬ 
quaintance—perhaps fatal harm. Once more Christian 
thought she would try to conquer her disgust, and win 
the girl to better things. 

“I do not wish to intrude—no third person has a right 
to intrude upon these affairs; but I wish I could be of 
any service. You must perceive. Miss Bennett, that your 
proceedings are not quite right—not quite safe. Are you 
sure you know enough about this gentleman ? How long 
have you been acquainted with him ? He probably be¬ 
longs to the University.” 

Miss Bennett laughed. “Not he — at least not now. 
He got into a scrape and left it, and has only been back 
here a week; but I have found out where his estate is, 
and all about him. He has the prettiest property, and 
is perfectly independent, and a baronet likewise. Only 
think”—and the girl, recovering her spirits, tossed her 
handsome head, and spread out her showy, tawdry gown 
—“only think of being called ‘Lady !’—Lady Uniacke.” 


158 


Christian's Mistake. 


Had Miss Bennett been less occupied in admiring her 
self in the mirror, she must have seen the start Mrs, Grey 
gave—for the moment only, however — and then she 
spoke. 

“Sir Edwin Uiiiaoke’s character here is well known. 
He is a bad man. For you to keep up any acquaintance 
with him is positive madness.” 

“Not in the least; I know perfectly what I am about, 
and can take care of myself, thank you. He has sown 
his wild oats, and got a title and estate, which makes a 
very great difference. Besides, I hope I’m as sharp as 
he. I shall not let myself down, no fear. I’ll make him 
make me Lady Uniacke.” 

Christian’s pity changed into something very like dis¬ 
gust. Many a poor, seduced girl would have appeared 
to her less guilty, less degraded than this girl, who, know¬ 
ing all a man’s antecedents, which she evidently did—bad 
as he was, set herself deliberately to marry him—a well 
planned, mercenary marriage, by which she might raise 
herself out of her low station into a higher, and escape 
from the drudgery of labor into ease and splendor. 

And yet is not the same thing done every day in soci¬ 
ety by charming young ladies, aided and abetted by most 
prudent, respectable, and decorous fathers and mothers? 
Let these, who think themselves so sinless, cast the first 
stone at Susan Bennett. 

But to Christian, who had never been in society, and 
did not know the wuays of it, the sensation convej^ed was 
one of absolute repulsion. She rose. 

“ I fear. Miss Bennett, that if we continued this con¬ 
versation forever we should never agree. It only proves 


Christian'^s Mistake. 


159 


to me more and more the impossibility of your remain¬ 
ing my daughter’s governess. Allow me to pay you, 
and then let us part at once.” 

But the look of actual dismay which came over the 
girl’s face once more made her pause. 

“You send me away with no recommendation—and I 
shall never get another situation—and I have hardly a 
thing to put on — and I’m in debt awfully. You are 
cruel to me, Mrs. Grey—you that have been a governess 
yourself” And she burst into a passion of hysterical 
crying. 

“What can I do?” said Christian, sadly. “ I can not 
keep you—I dare not. And it is equally true that I dare 
not recommend you. If I could find any thing else—not 
with children—something you really could do, and which 
would take you away from this town—” 

“ I’d go any where—do any thing to get my bread, for 
it comes to that. If I went home and told father this— 
if he found out why I had lost my situation, he’d turn 
me out of doors. And except this check, which is owed 
nearly all, I haven’t one halfpenny — I really haven’t, 
Mrs. Grey. It’s all very well for you to talk—you in 
your fine house and comfortable clothes; but you don’t 
know what it is to be shabb}^, cold, miserable. You 
don’t know what it is to be in dread of starving.” 

“I do,” said Christian, solemnly. It was true. 

The shudder which came over her at thought of these 
remembered days obliterated every feeling about the girl 
except the desire to help her, blameworthy though she 
was, in some way that could not possibly injure any one 
else. 


160 


Christimi s 3fistaJce. 


Suddenly she recollected that Mrs. Ferguson was in 
great need of some one to take care of Mr. Ferguson’s 
old blind mother, who lived forty miles distant from 
Avonsbridge. If she spoke to her about Miss Bennett, 
and explained, without any special particulars, that, 
though unfit to be trusted with children, she might do 
well enough with an old woman in a quiet village, Mrs. 
Ferguson, whose kind-heartedness was endless, might 
send her there at once. 

“ Will you go? and I will tell nobody my reasons for 
dismissing you,” said Christian, as earnestly as if she had 
been asking instead of conferring a favor. Her kindness 
touched even that bold, hard nature. 

“You are very good to me; and, perhaps, I don’t de¬ 
serve it.” 

“ Try to deserve it. If I get this situation for you, will 
you make me one promise ?” 

“ A dozen.” 

“One is enough — that you will give up Sir Edwin 
Uniacke.” 

“ How do you mean ?” 

“Don’t meet him—don’t write to him—don’t hold any 
communication with him for three months. If he wants 
you, let him come and ask you like an honest man.” 

Miss Bennett shook her head. “ He’s a baronet, you 
know.” 

“No matter. An honest man and an honest woman 
are perfectly equal, even though one is a baronet and 
the other a daily governess. And, if love is worth any 
thing, it will last three months; if worth nothing, it had 
better go.” 


Christian's Mistake. 


161 


But even while she was speaking—plain truths which 
she believed with her whole heart—Christian felt, in this 
case, the bitter satire of her words. 

Susan Bennett only smiled at them in a vague, uncom¬ 
prehending way “ Would you have trusted your lover 
—that means Dr. Grey, I suppose—for three months?” 

Mrs. Grey did not reply. But her heart leaped to think 
how well she knew the answer. No need to speak of it, 
though. It would be almost profanity to talk to this 
woman, who knew about as much of it as an African fe* 
tish-worshiper knows of the Eternal—of that love which 
counts fidelity not by months and years; which, though 
it has its root in mortal life, stretches out safely and fear¬ 
lessly into the life everlasting. 

“ Well, I’ll go, and perhaps my going away will bring 
him to the point,” was the fond resolution of Miss Susan 
Bennett. 

Mrs. Grey, infinitely relieved, wrote the requisite let¬ 
ters and dismissed her, determined to call that day and 
explain as much of the matter to honest Mrs. Ferguson 
as might put the girl in a safe position, where she would 
have a chance of turning out well, or, at least, better than 
if she had remained at Avonsbridge. 

Then Christian had time to think of hei’self Here 
was Sir Edwin Uniacke—this daring, unscrupulous man, 
close at her very doors; meeting her at evening parties; 
making acquaintance with her children, for Titia had 
told her how kind the gentleman was, and how politely 
he had inquired after her “ new mamma.” 

Of vanity, either to be wounded or flattered, Christian 
had absolutely none. And she had never read French 


162 


Christian'*s Mistake. 


novels. It no more occurred to her that Sir Edwin 
would come and make love to her, now she was Dr. 
Grey’s wife, than that she herself should have any feel¬ 
ing—except pity—in knowing of his love-affair with 
Miss Bennett. She was wholly and absolutely indiffer¬ 
ent with regard to him and all things concerning him. 
Even the events of last night and this morning were 
powerless to cast more than a momentary gravity over 
her countenance—gone the instant she heard her hus¬ 
band calling her from his open study door. 

“I wanted to hear how you managed with Miss Ben¬ 
nett, you wise woman. Is it a lover?” 

“ I fear so, and not a ereditable one. But I am cer¬ 
tain of one thing. She does not love him — she only 
wants to marry him.” 

“ A distinction with a difference,” said Dr. Grey, smil¬ 
ing. “And you don’t agree with her, my dear?” 

“I should think not!” 

Again Dr. Grey smiled. “How fiercely she speaks! 
What a tiger this little woman of mine could be if she 
chose. And so she absolutely believes in the old super¬ 
stition that love is an essential element of matrimony ?” 

“You are laughing at me.” 

“ No, my darling, God forbid. I am only—happy.” 

“ Are you really, really happy ? Do you think I can 
make you so—I, with all my unworthiness?” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

She looked up in his face from out of his close arms 
and they talked no more. 


Christian's Mistake. 


163 


CHAPTER IX. 

‘'Get thee behind me, Satan ! 

I know no other word; 

There is a battle that must be fought, 

And fought but with the sword— 

“ The clear, sharp, stainless, glittering sword 
Of purity divine: 

I’ll hew my way through a host of fiends. 

If that strong sword be mine.” 

“ 1 WISH, Mrs. Grey, you would learn to hold yourself 
a little more upright, and look a little more like the mas¬ 
ter’s wife—a lady in as good a position as any in Avons- 
bridge—and a little less like a Resignation or a Patience 
on a monument.” 

“I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Christian, laugh¬ 
ing; “I have not the slightest feeling either of resigna¬ 
tion or patience. I am afraid I was thinking over some¬ 
thing much more worldly — that plan about Miss Ben¬ 
nett’s new situation of which I have just been telling 
■you”—told as briefly as she could, for it was not very 
safe to trust Miss Gascoigne with any thing. “Also of 
the people we met last night at the vice chancellor’s.” 

“And that reminds me—why don’t you go and change 
your dress? I hate a morning-gown, and I wish you 
particularly to look as respectable as you can. We are 
sure to have callers to-day.” 


164 


Christianas Mistake, 


“Arews? Why?” 

“ To inquire for our health after last night’s entertain' 
ment. It is a customary attention; but, of course, you 
can not be expected to be acquainted with these sort of 
things. Besides, one gentleman especially asked my per¬ 
mission to call to-day—a man of position and wealth, 
whose acquaintance—” 

“ Oh, please tell me about him after I come back,” said 
Christian, hopelessly, “and I will go and dress at once.” 

“ Take that boy with you. He never was allowed to 
be in the drawing-room. Get up, Arthur,” in the sharp 
tone in which the most trivial commands were alwaj^s 
conveyed to the children, which, no doubt. Miss Gas¬ 
coigne thought — as many well-meaning parents and 
guardians do think—is the best and safest assertion of 
authority. But it had made of Letitia a cringing slave, 
and of Arthur a confirmed rebel, as he now showed him¬ 
self to be. 

“ I won’t go. Aunt Henrietta! I like this sofa. I’ll 
not stir an inch !” 

“ I command you ! Obey me, sir!” 

Arthur pulled an insolent face, at which his aunt rose 
up and boxed his ears. 

This sort of scene had been familiar enough to Chris¬ 
tian in the early days of her marriage. It always made 
her unhappy, but she attempted no resistance. Either 
she felt no right, or she had no courage. Now, things 
were different. 

She caught Miss' Gascoigne’s uplifted hand, and Ar¬ 
thur’s, already raised to return the blow. 

“Stop! you must not touch that child. And, Arthur, 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


165 


how can you be so naughty! Beg your aunt’s pardon 
immediately.” 

But Arthur began to sob and cough—that ominous 
cough which was their dread and pain still. It did not 
touch the heart of Aunt Henrietta. 

“We shall see who is mistress here. I will at once 
send for Dr. Grey. Maria, ring the bell.” 

Poor Aunt Maria, the most subservient of women, was 
about to do it, when flxte interfered in the shape of Bar¬ 
ker and a visiting card, which changed the whole cur¬ 
rent of Miss Gascoigne’s intentions. 

“Sir Edwin Uniacke! the very gentleman I was 
speaking of. I shall be delighted to see him. Show 
him up immediately.” 

Which was needless, for he had followed Barker to 
the door. There he stood, a graceful, well-appointed, 
fashionable young man, with not a hair awry in his 
black curls, not a shadow on his handsome face, perfect¬ 
ly satisfied with himself and his fortunes—a little flushed, 
perhaps, it might be, with what he would call the “ pluck- 
iness” of coming thus to “beard the lion in his den,” to 
visit the master of his late college. All men have some 
good in them, and the good in this man was, that, if a 
scapegrace, he was not a weak villain, not a coward. 

“How kind of you! I am delighted to find a young 
gentleman so punctual in his engagements with an old 
woman,” said Miss Gascoigne, with mingled dignity 
and empressement. “Sir Edwin Uniacke, my sister, Miss 
Grey ; Mrs. Grey, my sister-in-law.” 

Certainly Aunt Henrietta’s “ manners” were superb. 

Arthur lay crying and coughing still, but his luckless 


166 


Christian's Mistake. 


condition before visitors was covered over by these beau¬ 
tiful “maimers,” and by the flow of small-talk which at 
once began, and in which it was difficult to say wtio car¬ 
ried off the position best, the young man or the elderly 
woman. Both deserved equal credit from that “ world” 
to which they both belonged. 

Presently a diversion was created by Christian’s rising 
to carry Arthur awa}^ 

“You need not go,” said Miss Gascoigne. “King for 
Phillis. The child has been ill. Sir Edwin, and Mrs. 
Grey has made herself a perfect slave to him.” 

“How very—ahcrn !—charming!” said Sir Edwin 
Uniacke. 

Phillis appeared, but x\rthur clung tighter than ever 
to his step-mother’s neck. Nor did she wish to release 
him. 

“I thank yon, no. I can carry him quite easily,” she 
replied to Sir Edwin’s politely offered help, which was, 
indeed, the only sentence she had attempted to exchange 
with him. With her boy in her arms she quitted the 
room, and did not return thither all the afternoon. 

It was impossible she could. Without any prudish¬ 
ness, without the slightest atom of self-distrust or fear to 
meet him, every womanly feeling in her kept her out of 
his way. Here was a young man whom she had once 
ignorantly suffered to make love to her, nay, loved in a 
foolish, girlish way; a young man whom she now knew 
—and he must know she knew it—no virtuous girl could 
or ought to have regarded with a moment’s tenderness. 
Here was he insulting her by coming to her own house 
—her husband’s house, without the permission of either. 


Christian's Mistake, 


167 


Had he been humble or shamefaced, she might have 
pitied him, for all pure hearts have such iofiuite pity for 
sinners. She would have wished him repentance, peace, 
and prosperit}^, and gone on her way, as he on his, each 
feeling very kindly to the other, but meeting, and desir¬ 
ing to meet, no more. Now, when he obtruded himself 
so unhesitatingly, so unblushingly, on the very scene of 
his misdoings and disgrace, pity was dried up in her 
heart, and indignation took its place. 

“How dare he?” she thought, and nothing else but 
that. There was not one reviving touch of girlish admi 
ration, not one thrill of self-complacent emotion, to see, 
what she could not hel}) seeing, under his studiedly court¬ 
eous manner, that he had forgotten, and meant her to feel 
.he had forgotten, not a jot of the past. Whatever the 
episode of Susan Bennett might mean—if, indeed, such a 
man was not capable of carrying on a dozen such little 
episodes—his manner to Christian plainly showed that he 
admired her still; that he saw no difference between the 
pretty maiden Christian Oakley and the matron Christian 
Grey, and expressed this fact by tender tones and glances, 
alas! only too familiarly known by her of old. “ How 
dared he?” 

Christian was a very simple woman. She knew noth¬ 
ing at all of that fashionable world which, in its hlase crav¬ 
ing for excitement, delights, both in life and in books, to 
tread daintily on the very confines of guilt. She was not 
ignorant. She knew what sin was, as set forth in the 
Ten Commandments, but she understood absolutely noth¬ 
ing of that strange leniency or laxity which nowada 3 ’S 
makes vice so interesting as to look like virtue, or mixes 


168 


Christian!s Mistake. 


vice and virtue together in a knot of circumstances until 
it is difficult to distinguish right from wrong. 

Christian Grey was a wife. Th,‘refore, both as wife 
and as woman, it never occurred to her as the remotest 
possibility that she could indulge in one tender thought 
of any man not her husband, or allow any man to lift up 
the least corner of that veil of matronly dignity with 
which every married woman, under whatever circum¬ 
stances she has married or whatever may befall her aft¬ 
erward, ought to enwrap herself forever. “ When I am 
dead,” says Shakspeare’s Queen Katherine, 

“Let me be used with honor. Strew me over 
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know 
I was a chaste wife to my grave.” 

But Christian thought of something beyond the world. 
The “ honor” lay with herself alone; or, like her mar» 
riage vow, between herself, her husband, and her God. 
She was conscious of no dramatic struggles of conscience, 
no picturesque persistence in duty: she arrived at her 
end without any ethical or metaphysical reasoning, and 
took her course just because it seemed to her impossible 
there could be any other course to take. 

It was a very simple one — total passiveness and si¬ 
lence. The young man could not come to the Lodge 
very often, even if Miss Gascoigne invited him ever so 
much, and was really as charmed with him as she appear¬ 
ed to be. And no wonder. He was one of those men 
who charm every body—perhaps because he was not de¬ 
liberately bad, else how could he have attracted Christian 
Oakley? He had that rare combination of a brilliant in- 
Udlect, an aesthetic fancy, strong passions, and a weak 


Christian's Mistake. 


169 


moral nature, which makes some of the most dangerous 
and fatal characters the world ever sees. 

But, be he what he might, he could not force his pres¬ 
ence upon Christian against her will. “ No, I am not 
afraid,” she said to herself; “ how could I be — with 
these?” 

For, all the time she sat meditating, Arthur lay half 
asleep near her; and little Oliver, who had returned to 
his old habit of creeping about her room whenever he 
could, sat playing with his box of bricks on the hearth¬ 
rug at her feet, every now and then lifting up eyes of 
such heavenly depth of innocence that she felt almost a 
sort of compassion for the erring man who had no such 
child-angels in his home—nothing and no one to make 
him good, or to teach him, ere it was too late, that, even 
in this world, the wages of sin is death, and that the only 
true life is that of purity and holiness. 

Christian spent the whole afternoon with her children. 
They tried her a good deal, for Arthur was fractious, and 
Oliver went into one of his storms of passion, which upon 
him, as once upon his elder brother, were increasing day 
by day. It was impossible it should be otherwise under 
the present nursery rule. 

She sat and thought over plan after plan of getting Ol¬ 
iver more out of Phillis’s hands—not by any open revo¬ 
lution, for she was tender over even the exaggerated 
rights of such a long-faithful servant, but by the quiet in¬ 
fluence which generally accomplishes much more than 
force. Besides, time would do as much as she could, and 
a great deal more—it always does. 

Almost smiling at herself for the very practical turn 

H 


170 


Christian*s Mistake. 


which her meditations were beginning invariably to take 
—such a contrast to the dreamy musings of old—Chris¬ 
tian sent the children away, and hastily dressed for din¬ 
ner. 

It was the first time she had taken her place at the 
dinner-table since Arthur’s illness, and she felt glad to 
be there. She sat, with sweet, calm brow, and lustrous, 
smiling eyes, a picture such as it does any man good to 
gaze at from his table’s foot, and know that it is his own 
wife, the mistress of his household, the directress of his 
family, in whom her husband’s heart may safely trust 
forever. 

Dr. Grey seemed to feel it, though he said no more 
than that “it was good to have her back again.” But 
his satisfaction did not extend itself to the rest. 

Miss Gascoigne was evidently greatly displeased at 
something. Angry were the looks she cast around, and 
grim was the silence she maintained until Barker had 
disappeared. 

“Now,” said Christian, “shall we send for the chil¬ 
dren ?” 

“ No,” said Miss Gascoigne; “ at least not until I have 
said a word which I should be sorry to say before young 
people. Dr. Grey, I wish that you, who have some knowl¬ 
edge of the usages of society, would instruct your wife in 
them a little more. I do not expect much from her, but 
still, now that she is your wife, some knowledge of man¬ 
ners, or even common civility—” 

“What have I done?” exclaimed Christian, half alarm¬ 
ed and half amused. 

Miss Gascoigne took no notice, but continued address¬ 
ing Dr. Grey: 


Christia7i's Mistake. 


171 


“I ask you, as a gentleman, when other gentlemen 
come to this house to pay their respects to me—that is, 
to the ladies generally, ought Mrs. Grey to take the ear¬ 
liest opportunity of escaping from the drawing-room, nor 
return to it the whole time the visitors stay? No doubt 
she is unused to society, feels a little awkward in it, but 
still—” 

“I understand now,” interrupted Christian. “Yes, I 
did this afternoon exactly as she says. I am fully aware 
of the fact.” 

“And, pray, who was the gentleman to whom you 
were so very rude?” asked Dr Grey, smiling. 

Christian replied without any hesitation — and oh ! 
how thankful that she was able to do so—“It was Sir 
Edwin Uniacke.” 

But she was not prepared for the start and flash of 
sudden anger with which her husband heard the name. 

“What! has he called at my house? That is more 
effrontery than I gave him credit for.” 

“Effrontery!” repeated Miss Gascoigne, indignantly. 
“ It is no effrontery in a gentleman of his rank and for¬ 
tune, a visitor at Avonsbridge, to pay a call at Saint 
Bede’s Lodge. Besides, I gave him permission to do 
so. He was exceedingly civil to me last night, and 
I must say he is one of the pleasantest young men I 
have met for a long time. What do you know against 
him?” 

“What do I know?” echoed the master, and stopped. 
Then added, “ Of course you might not have heard; the 
dean and I keep these things private as much as we can; 
but he was ‘ rusticated’ a year and a half ago.” 


172 


Christian's Mistake. 


Miss Gascoigne miglit have known this fact or not; 
anyhow, she was determined not to yield her point. 

“Well, and if he were, doubtless it was for some youth¬ 
ful folly—debt, or the like. Now he has come into his 
property, he will sow his wild oats and become perfectly 
respectable.” 

“ I hope so—I sincerely hope so,” said Dr. Grey, not 
without a trace of agitation in his manner deeper than 
the occasion seemed to warrant. “But, in the mean 
time, he is not the sort of person whom I should wish 
the ladies of my family to have among their visiting ac¬ 
quaintance.” 

The argument had now waxed so warm that both par¬ 
ties forgot, or appeared to forget Christian, who sat silent, 
listening to it all—listening with a kind of wondering 
eagerness as to what her husband would say—her hus¬ 
band, a man in every way the very opposite of this man 
—Sir Edwin Uniacke. How would he feel about him ? 
how judge him? Or how much had he known him to 
judge him by? 

On this last head Dr. Grey was impenetrable. He par¬ 
ried, or gave vague general replies to all Miss Gascoigne’s 
questions. She gained nothing except the firm, decided 
answer, “I will not have Sir Edwin Uniacke visiting at 
the Lodge.” 

“But why not?” insisted Miss Gascoigne, roused by 
opposition into greater obstinacy. “ Did we not meet 
him at the vice chancellor’s? And he told me of two or 
three houses where we should be sure to meet him again 
next week.” 

“I can not help that, but in my own house I choose my 
own society.” 


Christian’s Mistake, 


173 


“Your reasons?” insisted Miss Gascoigne, now serious¬ 
ly angry. “ It is unfair to act so oddly—I must say so 
ridiculously, without giving a reason.” 

Dr. Grey paused a moment, and seemed to ponder be¬ 
fore he answered. 

“ My reason, so far as I can state it, is, that this young 
man holds, and puts into open practice, opinions which 
I wholly condemn, and consider unworthy of a Chris¬ 
tian, an honest man, or even a decent member of soci¬ 
ety.” 

“And, pray, what are they?” 

“ It is difficult to explain them to a woman. Do not 
think me hard,” he added, and his eyes wandered round 
to his wife, though he still addressed only his sister. “A 
man may fall and rise again—and we know Who pitied 
and helped to raise all fallen sinners. But sin itself nev¬ 
er ceases to be sin ; and, while impenitent, can neither be 
forgiven nor blotted out. If a man or a woman—there 
is no difference—came to me and said, ‘I have erred,but 
I mean to err no more,’ I hope I would never shut my 
door against either; I would help, and comfort, and save 
both, in every possible way. But a man who continues 
in sin, hugs it, loves it, calls it by all manner of fine names, 
and makes excuses for it after the fiishion of the world— 
the world may act as it chooses toward him, but there is 
only one way in which I can act.” 

“And what is that?” asked Miss Gascoigne, in aston 
ishing meekness. 

“I shut my door against him. Kot injuring him, or 
pharisaically condemning him, but merely showing to 
liim, and to all others, that I consider sin to be sin and 


1'74 


Christian's Mistake, 


call it so. Likewise, that I will have no fellowship with 
it, whether it is perpetrated by the beggar in the streets 
or the prince on the throne. That no consideration, ei¬ 
ther of worldly advantage, or dread of what society may 
say, or do, or think, shall ever induce me to let cross my 
threshold, or to bring into personal association with my 
family, any man who, to my knowledge, leads an unvir- 
tuous life.” 

“ Which most indecorous fact, as regards Sir Edwin, 
not only yourself, but your wife apparently, was quite 
aware of. Yery extraordinary!” 

This Parthian thrust was sharp indeed, but Dr. Grey 
bore it. 

If she was aware of it—which is not at all extraordi¬ 
nary—my wife did perfectly right in acting as she has 
done. It only shows, what I knew well before, that she 
and her husband think alike on this, as on most other 
subjects.” 

And he held out his hand to Christian. She could 
willingly have fallen at his feet. Oh, how small seemed 
all dreams of fancy, or folly of passionate youth, com¬ 
pared to the intense emotion—what was it, reverence or 
love?—that was creeping slowly and surely into every 
fibre of her being, for the man, her own wedded husband, 
who satisfied at once her conscience, her judgment, and 
her heart. 

While these two exchanged a hand-grasp and a look 
—no more; but that was enough—Miss Gascoigne sat, 
routed, but unconquered still. She might have made one 
more effort at warfare but that Barker opportunely en¬ 
tered with the evening post-bag. 


Christian's Mistake. 


1V5 


“ Barker!” said Dr. Grrey, as the man was closing the 
door. 

“Yes, master.” 

The master paused a second before speaking. “You 
know Sir Edwin Uniacke?” 

“ To be sure, sir,” with a repressed twitch of the mouth, 
which showed he knew only too much, as Barker was apt 
to do of all college affairs. 

“ If he should call again, say the ladies are engaged; 
but should he ask for me, show him at once to my 
study.” 

“ Yery well, master.” 

And Barker, as he went out of the dining-room, broke 
into a broad grin; but it was behind the back of the 
master. 


176 


Christian's Mistake, 


CHAPTER X. 

“A warm hearth, and a bright hearth, and a hearth swept clean, 
Where the tongs don’t raise a dust, and the broom isn’t seen; 

Where the coals never fly abroad, and the soot doesn’t fall, 

Oh, that’s the fire for a man like me, in cottage or in hall. 

^‘A light boat, and a tight boat, and a boat that rides well. 

Though the waves leap around it and the winds blow sncll: 

A full boat, and a merry boat, we’ll meet any weather, 

With a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether.” 

Sir Edwin Uniacke did not appear again at the 
Lodge, or not farther than the hall, where Cliristian, in 
l^assing, saw several of his cards lying in the card-basket 
And, two Sundays, in glancing casually down the row of 
strangers who so often frequented the beautiful old chap¬ 
el of St Bede’s, she thought she caught sight of that dark, 
handsome face, which had once seemed to her the embod¬ 
iment of all manly beauty. But she looked steadil}^ for¬ 
ward, neither seeking nor shrinking from recognition. 
There was no need. As she passed out of the chapel, 
leaning on her husband’s arm, the grave, graceful wom¬ 
an, composed rather than proud. Sir Edwin Uniacke must 
have felt that Christian Grey was as far removed from 
him and the like of him as if she dwelt already in the 
world beyond the grave. But tins, per-hti})S, only made 
him the more determined to se^r her. 


Christianas Mistake. 


17V 


Now and then, in her walks with Phillis and the chil¬ 
dren—she now never walked alone—she was certain she 
perceived him in the distance, his slight, tall figure, and 
peculiar waj of swinging his cane, as he strolled down 
the long avenues, now glowing into the beauty of that 
exquisite May time which Avonsbridge people never 
weary of praising. 

But still, if it were he, and if they did meet, what harm 
could it do to her? She could always guard herself by 
a lady’s strongest armor—perfect courtesy. Even should 
he recognize her, it was easy to bow and pass on, as she 
made up her mind to do, should the occasion arrive. 

It never did, though several times she had actually 
been in the same drawing-room with him. But it was in 
a crowded company, and he either did not see her, or had 
the good taste to assume that he had not done so. And 
Miss Gascoigne, whose eye he caught, had only given him 
a distant bow. 

“I shall bow, in spite of Dr. Grey and his crotchets,” 
said she. “But I suppose you are too much afraid of 
your husband.” 

Christian did not reply, and the conversation dropped. 

One good thing cheered her. Sir Edwin Uniacke re¬ 
mained in Avonsbridge, and Miss Susan Bennett was 
still staying, and doing well, in the house of the blind old 
woman forty miles away. 

Shortly her mind became full of far closer cares. 

The domestic atmosphere of the Lodge was growing 
daily more difficult to breathe in.^ What is it that con¬ 
stitutes an unhappy household ? Not necessarily a wick¬ 
ed or warring household, but still not happy; devoid of 
11 2 


178 


Chrifitlan's Mistake. 


that siinniness which, be the home ever so poor, makes it 
feel like “ a little heaven below” to those who dwell in it, 
or visit it, or even casually pass it by. “ See how these 
Christians love one another,” used to be said by the old 
heathen world; and the world says it still—nay, is com¬ 
pelled to say it, of any real Christian home. Alas! it 
could not always be said of Dr. Grey’s. 

Perhaps, in any case, this was unlikely. There were 
many conflicting elements therein. Whatever may be 
preached, and even practiced sometimes, satisfactorily, 
about the advantages of communism, the law of nature 
is that a family be distinct within itself—should consist 
of father, mother, and children, and them only. Any ex¬ 
traneous relationships admitted therein are always diffi¬ 
cult and generally impossible. In this household, long 
ruled theoretically by Miss Gascoigne, and practically by 
Phillis, who was the cleverest and most determined wom¬ 
an in it, the elements of strife were always smouldering, 
and frequently bursting out into a flame. The one bone 
of contention was, as might be expected, the children— 
who should rule them, and whether that rule was to be 
one of love or fear. 

Christian, though young, was neither ignorant nor in¬ 
experienced ; and when, day by day and week after week, 
she had to sit still and see that saddest of all sights to a 
tender heart, children slowly ruined, exasperated by injus¬ 
tice, embittered by punishment, made deceitful or coward¬ 
ly by continual fear, her spirit wakened up to its full dig¬ 
nity of womanhood and motherhood. 

“They are my children, and I will not have things 
thus,” was her continual thought. But how to effect her 


Christian's Mistake. 


179 


end safely and unobnoxiously was, as it always is, the 
great difficulty. 

She took quiet methods at first—principally the very 
simple one of loving the children till they began to love 
her. Oliver, and by-and-by Letitia, seized every chance 
of escaping out of the noisy nursery, where Phillis boxed, 
or beat, or scolded all day long, to mother’s quiet room, 
where they always found a gentle word and a smile—a 
little rivulet from that 

“ Constant stream of love which knew no fall,” 

which was Cowper’s fondest memory of his mother, and 
which should be perpetually flowing out from the hearts 
of all mothers toward all children. These poor children 
had never known it till now. 

Their little hearts opened to it, and bathed in it as in a 
fountain of joy. It washed away all their small naught¬ 
inesses, made them strong and brave, gradually lessened 
the underhandedness of the girl, the roughness and self¬ 
ishness of the boy, and turned the child Oliver into a lit¬ 
tle angel—that is, if children ever are angels except in 
poetry; but it is certain, and Christian often shuddered 
to see it, that mismanagement and want of love can 
change them into little demons. 

And at last there came a day when, passive resistance 
being useless, she had to strike with strong hand; the 
resolute hand which, as before seen, Christian, gentle as 
she was, could lift up against injustice, and especially in¬ 
justice shown to children. 

It happened thus: One day Arthur had been very 
naughty, or so his Aunt Henrietta declared, when Mra 


180 


Christian''s Mistake. 


Grey, who heard the disturbance, came to inquire into it. 
She thought it not such great wickedness—rather a piece 
of boyish mischief than intentional “ insult,” as Miss Gas¬ 
coigne affirmed it was. The lady had lost her spectacles; 
Arthur had pretended deeply to sympathize, had aided 
in the search; and finally, after his aunt had spent sev¬ 
eral minutes of fume and fuss, and angry accusations 
against every body, he had led her up to the dining-room 
mirror, where she saw the spectacles—calmly resting on 
her own nose! 

“But I only meant it as a joke, mother. And oh! it 
was so funny!” cried Arthur, between laughing and sob¬ 
bing; for his ears tingled still with the sharp blow which 
had proved that the matter was no fun at all to Aunt 
Henrietta. 

“ It was a very rude joke, and you ought to beg your 
aunt^s pardon immediately,” said Christian, gravely. 

But begging pardon was not half enough salve to the 
wounded dignity of Miss Gascoigne. She had been per¬ 
sonally offended—that greatest of all crimes in her eyes 

— and she demanded condign punishment. Nothing 
short of that well-known instrument which, in compli¬ 
ment to Arthur’s riper years, Phillis had substituted for 
the tied up posy of twigs chosen out of her birch broom 

— a little, slender yellow thing, which black children 
might once upon a time have played with, and the use of 
which toward white children inevitably teaches them a 
sense of burning humiliation, rising into fierce indigna¬ 
tion and desire for revenge, not unlike the revenge of 
negro slaves. And naturally; for while chastisement 
makes Christians, punishment only makes brutes. 


Christia7i*s Mistake. 


181 


Almost brutal grew the expression of Arthur’s poor 
thin face when his aunt insisted on a flogging with the 
old familiar cane, and after the old custom, by Phillis’s 
hands. 

“Do it, and I’ll kill Phillis!” was all he said, but he 
looked as if he could, and would. 

And when Phillis appeared, not unready or unwilling 
to execute the sentence—for she had bitterly resented 
Arthur’s secession from nursery rule—the boy clung des¬ 
perately with both his arms round his step-mother’s waist, 
and the shriek of “Mother! mother!” half fury, half de¬ 
spair, pierced Christian’s very heart. 

Now Mrs. Grey had a few rather strong opinions of her 
own on the subject of punishment, especially corporal 
punishment. She thought it degraded rather than re¬ 
formed, in most cases; and wherever she herself had seen 
it tried, it had always signally and fatally failed. At the 
utmost, the doubtfulness of the experiment was so great 
that she felt it ought never to be administered for any 
but grave moral offenses—theft, lying, or the like. Not 
certainly in such a case as the present—a childish fault, 
perhaps only a childish folly, where no moral harm was 
either done or intended. 

“I didn’t mean it! I didn’t, mother!” cried the boy, 
incessantly, as he clung to her for protection. And 
Christian held him fast. 

“ Miss Gascoigne, if you will consider a little, I think 
you will see that Arthur’s punishment had better be of 
some other sort than flogging. We will discuss it be¬ 
tween ourselves. Phillis, you can go.” 

But Phillis did not offer to stir. 


182 


Christiari's Mistake, 


“Nurse, obey my orders,” screamed Miss Gascoigne. 
“Take that wicked boy and cane him soundly.” 

“Nurse,” said Christian, turning very pale, and speak¬ 
ing in an unusually suppressed voice, “ if you lay one fin¬ 
ger on my son you quit my service immediately.” 

The assumption of authority was so unexpected, so 
complete, and yet not overstepping one inch the authori¬ 
ty which Mrs. Grey really possessed, that both sister-in- 
law and servant stood petrified, and offered no resistance, 
until Miss Gascoigne said, quivering with passion, 

“ Til is can not go on. I must know at once my rights 
in this house, or quit it. Phillis, knock at the study-door 
and say I wish to speak to Dr. Grey—that is, if Mrs. Grey, 
your mistress, will allow you.” 

“ Certainly,” said Christian. 

And then, drawing Arthur beside her, and sitting 
down, for she felt shaking in every limb, she waited the 
event; for it was a struggle which she had long felt must 
come, and the sooner it came the better. There are crises 
when the “ peace-at-any-price” doctrine becomes a weak¬ 
ness—more, an absolute wrong. Much as she would have 
suffered, and had suffered, so long as all the suffering lay 
with herself alone, when it came to involve another, she 
saw her course was clear. As Arthur stood by her, con¬ 
vulsed with sobs, crying at one minute, “Mother, it’s not 
fair, I meant no harm,” and the next, clenching his little 
fist with, “ If Phillis touches me. I’ll murder Phillis,” she 
felt that it was no longer a question of pleasantness or 
ease, or even of saving her husband from pain. It be¬ 
came a matter of dut}^—her duty to act to the best of her 
conscience and ability toward the children whom Provb 


Chnstia7i's MistaJce. 


183 


dence had sent to her. It was no kindness to her hus¬ 
band to allow these to be sacrificed, as, if she did not stand 
firm, Arthur might be sacrificed for life. 

So she sat still, uttering not a word except an occasion¬ 
al whisper of “ Be quiet, Arthur,” until Dr. Grey entered 
the room. Even then she restrained herself so far as to 
let Miss Gascoigne tell the story. She trusted—as she 
knew she could trust—to her husband’s sense of justice 
and quicksigh ted ness, even through any amount of cloudy 
exaggeration. When the explanation came to an end, 
and Dr. Grey, sorely perplexed and troubled, looked to¬ 
ward his wife questioningly, all she said was a suggestion 
that both the children—for Letitia had watched the whole 
matter with eager curiosity from a corner—should be sent 
out of the room. 

“Yes, yes, certainly; Arthur, let go your mother’s 
hand, and run up to the nursery.” 

But Arthur’s plaintive sobs began again. “I can’t go, 
papa—I daren’t; Phillis will beat me!” 

“ Is this true, Christian ?” 

“I am afraid it is. Had not the children better wait 
in my room ?” 

This order given, and the door closed. Dr. Grey sat 
down with a very piteous countenance. He was such a 
lover pf peace and quietness; and now to be brought 
from his study into the midst of this domestic hurri¬ 
cane—it was rather hard. He looked from his wife to 
his sister, and back again to his wife. There his eyes 
rested and brightened a little. The contrast between the 
two faces was great—one so fierce and bitter, the other» 
sad indeed, but composed and strong. Nature herself, 


184 


Christian’s MistaTce. 


who, in the long run, usually decides between false and 
true authority, showed at once who possessed the latter 
—which of the two women was the most fitted to govern 
childieu. 

“Henrietta,” said Dr. Grey, “what is it 3^ou wish me 
to do? If my boy has offended you, of course he must 
be punished. Leave him to Mrs. Grey ; she will do what 
is right.” 

“Then I have no longer any authority in this house?” 

“Authority in my wife’s house my sister could hardly 
desire. Influence she might always have; and respect 
and affection will, I trust, never be wanting.” 

Dr. Grey spoke very kindly, and held out his hand, but 
Miss Gascoigne threw it angrily aside; and then, break¬ 
ing through even the unconscious restraint in which most 
women, even the most violent, are held by the presence 
of a man, and especially such a man as the master, she 
burst out—this poor passionate woman, cursed with that 
terrible predominance of self, which in men is ugly 
enough, in women absolutely hateful— 

“ Kever! Keep your hypocrisies to j^ourself, and your 
vife too—the greatest hypocrite I know. But she can 
not deceive me. Maria”—and she rushed at luckless 
Aunt Maria, who that instant, knitting in hand, was 
quietly entering the room—“come here, Maria, and be 
a witness to what j^our brother is doing. He is turning 
me out of his house—me, who, since my poor sister died, 
have been like a mother to his children. He is takino; 
them from me, and giving them over to that woman—■ 
that bad, low, cunning woman !” 

“Stop!” cried Dr. Grey. “One word more like that. 


Christian'^s Mistake, 185 

and I will turn you out of my house—ay, this very 
night!” 

There was a dead pause. Even Miss Gascoigne was 
frightened. Christian, who had never in all her life wit¬ 
nessed such a scene, wished she had done any thing— 
borne any thing, rather than have given cause for it. 
And yet the children I Looking at that furious woman, 
she felt—any observer would have felt—that to leave 
children in Miss Gascoigne’s power was to ruin them for 
life. No; what must be done had better be done now 
than when too late. Yet her heart failed her at sight of 
poor Aunt Maria’s sobs. 

“Oh, dear Arnold, what is the matter? You haven’t 
been vexing Henrietta? But you never vex any body, 
you are so good. Dear Heni'ietta, are we really to go 
back to our own house at Avonside? Well, I don’t 
mind. It is a very prett}^ house, far more cheerful than 
the Lodge; and our tenants are just leaving, and they 
have kept the furniture in tlie best of order—the nice 
furniture that dear Arnold gave us, you know. Even if 
he does want us to leave the Lodge, it is quite natural. 
I always said so. And we shall only be a mile away, 
and can have the children to spend long days with us, 
and—” 

Simple Aunt Maria, in her hasty jumping at conclu¬ 
sions, had effected more than she thought of—more harm 
and more good. 

“ I assure .you, Maria,” said Dr. Grey, with a look of 
sudden relief, which he tried hard—good man I—to con 
ceal,“it never was my intention to suggest your leaving, 
but since you have suggested it—” 


186 


Christian'’8 Mistake. 


“I will go,” interrupted Miss Gascoigne. “Saj not 
another word; we will go. I will not stay to be insult¬ 
ed here; I will return to my own house—my own poor 
humble cottage, where at least I can live independent and 
at peace—yes, Dr. Grey, I will, however you may try to 
prevent me.” 

“ I do not prevent you. On the contrary, I consider 
it would be an excellent plan, and you have my full con¬ 
sent to execute it whenever you choose.” 

This quiet taking of her at her word—this brief, de¬ 
termined, and masculine manner of settling what she had 
no intention of doing unless driven to it through a series 
of feminine arguments, contentions, and storms, was quite 
too much for Miss Gascoigne. 

“ Go back to Avonside Cottage! Shut myself up in 
that poor miserable hole—” 

“ Oh, Henrietta !” expostulated Aunt Maria, “ when it 
is so nicely furnished—with the pretty little green-house 
that dear Arnold built for us too!” 

“Don’t tell me of green - houses! I say it is only a 
hole. And I to settle down in it—to exile myself from 
Avonsbridge societj^, that Mrs. Grey may rule here, and 
boast that she has driven me out of the field—me, the 
last living relative of your dear lost wife, to say nothing 
of poor Maria, your excellent sister, to whom you owe so 
much—” 

“ Oh, Henrietta!” pleaded Miss Grey once more. “ Nev¬ 
er mind her, dear, dear Arnold.” 

Dr. Grey looked terribly hurt, but he and Aunt Maria 
exchanged one glance and one long hand-clasp. What¬ 
ever debt there was between the brother and sister, love 
had long since canceled it all. 


Christ ia iCs MistaRe, 


187 


Pacify her, Maria—you know you can. Make her 
think better of all this nonsense. My wife and my sis- 
ters could never be rivals; it is ridiculous to suppose 
such a thing. But, indeed, I believe we should all be 
much better friends if you were in your own house at 
Avonside.” 

“I think so.too,” whispered Aunt Maria. “I have 
thought so ever so long.” 

“Then it is settled,” replied Dr. Grey, in the mild way 
in which he did sometimes settle things, and after which 
you might just as well attempt to move him as to move 
the foundations of Saint Bede’s. 

^It was all so sudden, this total domestic revolution, 
which yet every body inwardly recognized as a great re¬ 
lief, that for a minute or two nobody found a word more 
to say, until Miss Gascoigne, who generally had both the 
first word and the last, broke out again, 

“Yes, you have done it, and it shall never be undone, 
however you may live to repent it Dr. Grey, I quit your 
house, shaking the dust off my feet: see that it does not 
rise up in judgment against you. Maria—my poor Ma¬ 
ria—your own brother may forsake you, but I never will. 
We go away together—to-morrow.” 

“ Not to-morrow,” said Dr. Grey. “ Your tenants have 
only just left, and we must have the cottage made com¬ 
fortable for you. Let me see, this is the 8th ; suppose we 
settle that you leave on the 30th of June. Will that do, 
Maria?” 

As he spoke he took her little fat hand, patted it lov¬ 
ingly, and then kissed her. 

“ You’ll not be unhappy, sister? You know it is only 


188 


Christianas Mistake. 


going back to the old ways, and to the old country life, 
which you always liked much better than this.” 

Much—much better. You are quite right, as you 
always are, dear Arnold.” 

This was said in a whisper, but Miss Gascoigne 
caught it. 

“Ah! yes,I see what you are doing—stealing from 
me the only heart that loves me—persuading her to stay 
behind. Very well. Do it, Maria. Kemaiii with your 
brother and your brother’s wife. Forget me, who am 
nothing to any body—of no use to one creature living.” 

Poor woman 1 without meaning it, she had hit upon 
something very near the truth. It always is so—always 
must be. People win what they earn; those who sow 
the wind reap the whirlwind. Handsome, clever, showy, 
and admired, as she had been in her day, probably not 
one living soul did now really care for Henrietta Gas¬ 
coigne except foolish, faithful Aunt Maria. 

And yet there must have been some good in her, some¬ 
thing worth caring for, even to retain that affection, weak 
and submissive as it may have been. Christian’s heart 
smote her as if she herself had been guilty of injustice 
toward Miss Gascoigne when she saw Miss Grey creep up 
to her old friend, the tears flowing like a mill-stream. 

“ Ho, dear, I shall not stay behind. Arnold doesn’t 
want me. And I have always put up with you some¬ 
how—I mean, you have put up with me—we shall man¬ 
age to do it still. We’ll live together again, as we did 
for so many years, in our pretty cottage and garden that 
dear Arnold gave us, and I will look after my poultry, 
and you shall do your visiting. Yes, dear Henrietta, it 


Christia7i's Mistake. 


189 


'will be all for the best. We shall be so independent, so 
happy,” 

Happy! It was not a word in Miss Gascoigne’s dic¬ 
tionary. But she looked with a certain tenderness at the 
fond little woman who had loved her, borne with her, 
never in the smallest degree resisted her since they were 
girls together. It was a strange tie, perhaps finding its 
origin in something deeper than itself—in that dead cap¬ 
tain, whose old-fashioned miniature still lay in poor Ma¬ 
ria’s drawer—the fierce, handsome face, proving that, had 
he lived, he might have been as great a tyrant over her 
as his sister Henrietta. Still, however it arose, the bond 
was there, and nothing but death could ever break it be¬ 
tween these two lonely women. 

‘‘ Come, then, Maria, we will share our last crust to¬ 
gether. You, at least, have never wronged me. Come 
away.” 

Gathering her dress about her with a tragical air, and 
plucking it, as she passed Mrs. Grey, as though the pos¬ 
sible touch were pollution. Aunt Henrietta swept from 
the room; Aunt Maria, after one deprecatory look be¬ 
hind, as if to say, “ You see I can’t do otherwise,” slowly 
following. 

And so it was all over—safely over—this great change, 
which, however longed for, had not been contemplated as 
a possibility one hour before. It had arranged itself out 
of the most trivial elements, as great events often do. 
There could be no question that every body felt it to be 
the best thing, and every body was very thankful; and 
yet Christian watched her husband with a little uncer¬ 
tainty until she heard him heave a sigh of relief. 


190 


Chrutianh Mistake. 


“ Yes, I am sure it was right to be done, and I am glad 
it is done. Are not you, Christian?” 

“ Oh, so glad ! I hope it is not wicked in me, but I 
am so glad!” 

“ Why—to have me all to yourself?” said he, smiling 
at her energy. 

A strange, unwonted thrill ran through Christian’s 
heart as she recognized, beyond possibility of doubt, that 
this was the secret source of her delight—of the feeling 
as if a new existence were opening before her—as if the 
heavy weight which had oppressed her were taken off, 
and she could move through those old gloomy rooms, 
which had once struck a chill through her whole being, 
with a sense as if she were as light as air, and as merry 
as a bird in the spring. 

To have the Lodge made into a real home—a home 
altogether her own—and emptied of all but those who 
were really her own, with a glad welcome for any visit¬ 
ors, but still only as visitors, coming and going, and 
never permanently interfering with the sweet, narrow 
circle of the family fireside; to be really mistress in her 
own house; to have her time to herself; to spend long 
mornings with the children; long evenings alone with 
her husband, even if he sat for hours poring over his big 
books, and did not speak a word—oh, how delicious it 
would be! 

“Yes, all to myself—I’ll have you all to myself,” she 
murmured, as she put her arms round his neck,, and 
looked right up into his eyes. 

For the first time she was sure^—quite sure that she 
loved him. And as she stood embraced, encircled and 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


191 


protected by his love, and thought of her peaceful life 
now and to come, full of duties, blessings, and delights, 
ay, though it had also no lack of cares, Christian felt sor¬ 
ry—oh, so infinitely sorry for poor Aunt Henrietta. 


192 


Christianas Mistake, 


CHAPTER XL 

Weave, weave, weave. 

The tiniest thread will do; 

The filmiest thread from a spider’s bed 
Is stout enough for you. 

“ Twist, twist, twist, 

With fingers dainty and small; 

Let the wily net be quietly set. 

That the innocent may fall.” 

Arthur never got his thrashing. The serious results, 
of which he had been the primary cause, for a while put 
his naughtiness out of every body’s head; and when, aft¬ 
er an hour or more, Christian went up stairs, and found 
the poor little fellow waiting patiently and obediently in 
mother’s bedroom, it seemed rather hard to punish him. 

She went down again into the study, and had a long 
talk with her husband, in which she spoke her mind very 
freely—more freely than she had ever done before, and 
told him things which had come to her Rnowledge con¬ 
cerning the children of which he, poor man ! had hither¬ 
to been kept in total ignorance. 

Thus taking counsel together, the father and mother de¬ 
cided that, except in ver}^ rare instances, corporal punish¬ 
ments should be entirely abolished, and never, under any 
circumstances, should be administered by Phillis. That 
Phillis’s sway was to be narrowed as much as possible. 


Christian'*s Mistake, 


193 


without any absolute laws being made that would wound 
her feelings, or show indifference to her long fidelity. 

“ For,” said Dr. Grey, “ we must not forget, Christian, 
that she loved the children when they had not quite so 
much love as they have now.” 

No, Arthur was not thrashed—was promised faithfully 
that Phillis should never be allowed to thrash him any 
more; but his step-mother made him write the meekest, 
humblest letter of apology to his Aunt Henrietta, which 
that lady returned unanswered. This, however, as Chris¬ 
tian took some pains to explain to him, was a matter of 
secondary consequence. Whatever she did, he bad done 
only what was his duty. And he was enjoined, when 
they did meet, to address her politely and respectfully, as 
a nephew and a gentleman should—as his father always 
addressed her, even in answer to those sharp speeches 
which, though in the children’s presence. Miss Gascoigne 
continually let fall. 

Nevertheless, Dr. Grey bore them, and so did his wife, 
which was harder. She did not mind rudeness to her¬ 
self, but to hear her husband thus spoken to and spoken 
of was a sufficient trial to make her long for the time of 
release. And yet through it all came the deep sense of 
pity that any woman who could show herself in so pleas¬ 
ant a light abroad — for many of the morning visitors 
quite condoled with Mrs. Grey on the impending change 
at the Lodge, and on the great loss she would have in 
her sister-in-law—should be so obnoxious at home that 
her nearest relatives counted the days until her shadow 
should cease to darken their doors. 

And so, gradually and often painfully, but still with a 
I 


194 


Christianas Mistake. 


firm conviction on every body’s mind that the plan so 
suddenly decided on had been the best for all parties, 
came round the time of the aunts’ departure. 

Christian had spent all the previous day at Avonside, 
which she found a very pretty cottage, all woodbine and 
roses, with nothing at all poverty-stricken about it, either 
within or without She had gone over it from garret to 
basement, making every thing as comfortable as possi¬ 
ble, as she had cMrte hlanche from her husband to do, and 
gladly did; for on her tender conscience rankled every 
bitter word of Miss Gascoigne’s as though it were real 
truth ; and sometimes, in, spite of herself, she could not 
suppress an uneasy feeling as if the aunts were being 
“ turned out.” The last day of their stay at the Lodge 
was so exceedingly painful, that, having done all she 
could, she at length rushed out of the house with Arthur 
for a breath of fresh air and a quiet half hour before din¬ 
ner, if such were possible. 

She did not go far, only just crossing the bridge to the 
college grounds opposite, where, in sight of the Lodge 
windows, she could walk up and down the beautiful av¬ 
enue, which still bears the name of the old philosopher 
who loved it. If his wise, gentle ghost still haunted the 
place, it might well have watched with pleasure this fair, 
grave, sweet-looking young woman sauntering up and 
down with the boy in her hand, listening vaguely to his 
chatter, and now and then putting in a smiling answer. 
She had a smiling, peaceful face, and her thoughts were 
peaceful too. She was thinking to herself how pretty 
Avonsbridge was in its June drevSS of freshest green, how 
quietly and innocently life passed under shadow of these 


Christian’s Mistake. 


195 


college walls, and how could any one have the heart to 
make it otherwise? 

She would not after to-day. She would cease to vex 
herself, or let her husband vex himself about Miss Gas¬ 
coigne. With a mile and a half between them, the Lodge 
would certainly feel safe from her. And oh! what a 
wonderful peace would come into the house when she 
left it! How good the children would be! How happy 
their father!—yes, he could be made happy, Christian 
knew that, and it was she who could make him so. The 
consciousness of power in this sweet sense, and the de¬ 
light of exercising it, was becoming the most exquisite 
happiness Christian had ever known. She sat dreaming 
over it almost like a girl in her first love-dream—only 
this dream was deeper and calmer, with all the strength 
of daily duty added to the joy of loving and being loved. 
Hot that she reasoned much—she was not given to much 
analyzing of herself—she only knew that she was con¬ 
tent, and found content in every thing—in the ripple of 
the river at her feet, the flutter of the leaves over her 
head, the soft blue sky above the colleges, and the green 
grass gemmed with daisies, where an old man was mow¬ 
ing on the one side, and a large thrush, grown silent 
with summer, was hopping about on the other. Every 
thing seemed beautiful, for the beauty began in her own 
heart. 

“ Good-morning, Mrs. Grey.” 

People talk about “ looking as if they had seen a ghost” 
—and perhaps that look was not unlike Christian’s as 
she started at this salutation behind her. He must have 
come stealthily across the grass, for she had heard noth- 


196 


Christian'^s Mistake, 


ing, did not even know that any body was near, till she 
looked up and saw Sir Edwin Uniacke. 

The surprise was so great that it brought (oh, what 
shame to feel it, and feel sure that he saw it!) the blood 
up to her face—to her very forehead. She half rose, and 
then sat down again, with a blind instinct that any thing 
was better than either to be or to appear afraid. 

Without waiting for either a reply or a recognition— 
which indeed came not, nothing but that miserable blush 
—the young man seated himself on the bench and began 
to make acquaintance with Arthur. 

“ I believe I have seen you before, my little friend. 
You are Dr. Grey’s son, and I once offered to carry you, 
but was refused. Are you quite well now, Master Al¬ 
bert? Isn’t that your name?” 

“ No; Arthur,” said the boy, rather flattered at being 
noticed. “ Are you one of the men at our college? You 
haven’t 3^our gown on.” 

“ Not now,” with a queer look, half amusement, half 
irritation. “I don’t belong to Avonsbridge. I have a 
house of my own in the country—such a pretty place, 
with a park, and deer, and a lake, and a boat to row on 
it. Wouldn’t you like to see it?” 

“Yes,” said Arthur, all eyes and ears. 

“ I live there, but I am always coming over to- Avons¬ 
bridge. Do what I will, I can not keep away.” 

The tone, the glance across the child, were unmistaka¬ 
ble. Christian rose, her momentary stupefaction gone. 

“Come, Arthur, papa will be waiting dinner. We 
never keep papa waiting, you know.” 

Simple as the words were, they expressed volumes. 


Christian's Mistake. 


197 


For an instant her composed matronly grace—her per¬ 
fect indifference, silenced, nay, almost awed the young 
man, and then irritated him into resistance. He caught 
hold of Arthur in passing. 

“You need not go yet. It is only just five, and your 
papa does not dine till six.” 

“How do you know?” asked the child. 

“Oh, I know every thing. I watch you in and out 
of the Lodge, and am aware of all you do. But about 
the boat I promised you. It is at my place. Lake Hall, 
near—” 

“ Arthur, we must go.” 

Arthur jumped up at once. Gentle as it was, he had 
learned that that voice must never be disobeyed. 

“ I can’t stay, sir; mother calls me. But I’ll tell papa 
we met you, and ask him to let me come and see you, if 
you will tell me your name.” 

Sir Edwin hesitated. 

“ There is no necessity,” said Mrs. Grey. “ Arthur, I 
know this gentleman; I myself shall tell your papa that 
we have met him here. Good-morning, Sir Edwin Uni- 
acke.” 

She bowed with that perfect, repellent courtesy against 
which there is no appeal, and passed on. Had she seen 
—she did not, for she looked straight on and saw noth¬ 
ing—but had she seen the look of mingled hate and love 
which darkened over Sir Edwin’s face, it might have ter¬ 
rified her. But no, she was too courageous a woman to 
fear any thing save doing wrong. 

After a minute’s angry beating of his boot with his 
stick, the young man rose and followed them down the 


198 


Christianas Mistake, 


avenue, contriving, by dint of occasional conversation 
with Arthur, to keep alongside of them the whole way 
as far as the bridge which connected the college grounds 
with the college buildings, and which was overlooked by 
the whole frontage of the Lodge. 

With a vague sense of relief and protection, Christian 
glanced to the windows of her home, and there, at the 
open nursery casement, she saw a group, Phillis, Oliver, 
Letitia, and behind Letitia another person—Miss Susan 
Bennett, who had come with a message from old Mrs. 
Ferguson, and whom, in her kindness, Mrs. Grey had sent 
to have a cup of tea in the nursery before returning to 
the village, where the girl said she was “ quite comfort¬ 
able.” There she stood, she and Phillis, watching, as 
they doubtless had watched the whole interview, from 
the time Sir Edwin sat down on the bench till his part¬ 
ing shake of the hand to Arthur, and farewell bow to her¬ 
self, which bow was rather easy and familiar than distant¬ 
ly ceremonious. 

Had he done it on purpose? Had he too seen the 
group at the window, and, moved by a contemptible 
vanity, or worse, behaved so that these others might no¬ 
tice his manner to Mrs. Grey, and put upon it any con¬ 
struction they pleased ? 

Yet what possible construction could be put upon it, 
even by the most ill-natured and malicious witnesses? 
The college grounds were free to all; this meeting was 
evidently accidental; and all that had passed thereat was 
a few words with the boy, which Arthur would be sure 
to repeat at once; nor did Christian desire to prevent 
him. 


Christian's Mistake. 


199 


It was a hard position. She had done no wrong—not 
the shadow of wrong—and yet here was she, Christian 
Grey, discovered meeting and walking with a man whom 
her husband had distinctly forbidden the house—discov¬ 
ered both by her servant, who, having an old servant’s 
love of prying into family affairs, no doubt knew of this 
prohibition, and by Miss Bennett, to whom she herself 
had said that Sir Edwin was a man unfit for any respect¬ 
able woman’s acquaintance. 

What would they both think? And, moreover, when 
she heard of it—as assuredly she would—what would 
Miss Gascoigne think and say ? 

That overpowering dread, “ What will people say ?’* 
for the first time in her life began to creep over Chris¬ 
tian’s fearless heart. Such an innocent heart it was, and 
oh ! such a contented one only half an hour ago. 

“How dare he?” she said, fiercely, as she found her¬ 
self alone in her own room, with but just time enough to 
dress and take her place as the fair, stately, high-thought- 
ed, pure-hearted mistress of her husband’s table. “ How 
dare he?” and, standing at the glass, she looked almost 
with disgust into the beautiful face that burnt hotly still 
only at the remembrance of the last ten minutes. “But 
he must see—he must surely understand how utterly I 
despise him. He will not presume again. Oh, if I had 
only told my husband! It was a terrible mistake!” 

What was—her secret or her marriage? or both? 

Christian did not stop to think. Whatever it was, she 
knew that, like most of the mistakes and miseries of this 
world, it was made to be remedied — made possible of 
remedy. At all events, the pain must be endured, 


200 


Christianas Mistake. 


fought through, struggled with, any thing but succumb¬ 
ed to. 

In the five minutes that, after all, she found she had to 
wait in the drawing-room before the aunts or her hus¬ 
band appeared, Christian took herself seriously to task for 
this overwhelming, cowardly fear. What had she really 
to dread? What harm could he do her—the bad man 
of whom she had so ignorantly made a girl’s ideal ? The 
only testimony thereof was her letters, if he still had 
them in his possession—her poor, innocent, girlish letters 
—very few—-just two or three. Foolish they might have 
been, sentimental and ridiculous, but she could not re¬ 
member any thing wrong in them—any thing that a girl 
in her teens need blush to have written, either to friend 
or lover, save for the one fact that a girl is wiser to have 
no friend at all among men—except her lover. And, 
whatever they were, most likely he had destroyed them 
long ago. 

“ No, no,” she thought, “ he can not do me any harm; 
he dare not!” 

It was difficult to say what Sir Edwin Uniacke would 
not dare; for, going back to her room for some trifle for¬ 
gotten, she discovered that he was still lounging, cigar 
in mouth, up and down the river-side avenue opposite, 
where he could plainly see and be seen from almost ev¬ 
ery window in the Lodge. 

And there, hurrying to meet him, she saw Susan Ben¬ 
nett. But the meeting appeared not satisfactory, and aft¬ 
er a few minutes the girl had left him, and he was again 
seen walking up and down alone. 

A vain woman might have been flattered, perhaps ab 


Christianas Mistake. 


201 


lured, by this persistence. In Christian it produced only 
repulsion, actual hatred, if so gentle a spirit could hate. 
An honest love, from the very humblest man alive, she 
would have been tender over; but this, which to her, a 
wife, was necessarily utter insult and wickedness, awoke 
in her nothing but abhorrence—the same sort of right¬ 
eous abhorrence that she would have felt—she knew she 
would — toward any woman who had tried to win her 
husband from herself. Win her husband? The fancy 
almost made her smile, and then filled her with a brim¬ 
ming sense of joy that he was—what he was, a man to 
whom the bare idea of loving any woman but his own 
wife was so impossible that it became actually ludicrous. 

She smiled, she even laughed, with an ever-growing 
sense of all he was to her and she to him, when she heard 
him open his study-door and call “Christian.” 

She went quickly, to explain in a word or two, before 
they went down to dinner, her rencontre with Sir Edwin 
Uniacke. Afterward, in their long, quiet evenings, to 
which she so looked forward, she would tell her husband 
the whole story, and give herself the comfort of feeling 
that now at last he was fully acquainted with her whole 
outer life and inmost soul, as a husband ought to be. 

But there stood the two aunts, one stately and grim, 
the other silent and tearful; and it took all Dr. Grey’s 
winning ways to smooth matters so as to make their last 
meal together before the separation any thing like a 
peaceful one. 

He seemed so anxious for this—nervously anxious—• 
that his wife forgot every thing in helping him to put a 
cheerful face on every thing. And when she watched 
I 2 


202 


Christicm''s Mistake. 


him, finding a pleasant word for every one, and patient 
even with Miss Gascoigne, who to-day seemed in her 
sharpest mood, gray-haired, quaint, and bookish-looking 
as he was, it appeared to Christian that not a young man 
living could bear a moment’s comparison with Dr. Ar¬ 
nold Grey. 

He tried his best, and she tried her best; but it was 
rather a dull dinner, and she found no opportunity to 
say, as at last she had decided to say publicly, just as a 
piece of news, no more, that she had to-day met Sir Ed¬ 
win Uniacke. And so it befell that the first who told 
the fact was Arthur, blurting out between his strawber¬ 
ries, “Oh, papa! I want you to let me go to a place called 
Lake Hall.” 

“Lake Hall!” 

“Yes; the owner of it invited me there; he did, in¬ 
deed. He is the kindest, pleasantest gentleman I ever 
met. A ‘Sir,’ too. His name is Sir Edwin Uniacke.” 

“My boy, where did you meet Sir Edwin Uniacke?” 

So the whole story came out. Dr. Grey listened in 
grave silence—even a little displeasure, or something less 
like displeasure than pain. At length he said, 

“ I think you must have made some mistake, Arthur. 
Your mother could never have allowed—” 

“She did not say she would allow me to go. She 
looked rather vexed; I don’t think she liked Sir Edwin 
Uniacke. And if she is very much against my going— 
well, I won’t go,” said Arthur, heroically. 

“You are a good boy; but I think this gentleman 
ought to have hesitated a little before he thus intruded 
himself upon my wife and my son.” 


Chrlstia^i's Mistake. 


203 


“I think so too,” said Christian, the first words she 
had spoken. 

Dr. Grey glanced at her sharply, but the most suspi¬ 
cious husband could have read nothing in her face be¬ 
yond what she said. 

And I think,” burst in Miss Gascoigne, who had list¬ 
ened to it all, her large eyes growing every minute larger 
and larger, “ that it must be somehow a lady’s own fault 
when a gentleman is intrusive. I never believed—I nev¬ 
er could have believed—after all Dr. Grey has said about 
Sir Edwin, that the three figures—a lady, and gentleman, 
and a child, whom I saw this afternoon sitting so com¬ 
fortably together on the bench—as comfortably, I vow 
and declare, as if they had been sitting there an hour, 
which perhaps they had—” 

“Not more than two minutes,” interrupted Christian, 
speaking very quietly, but conscious of a wild desire to 
fly at Miss Gascoigne and shake her as she stood, putting 
forward, in her customary way, those mangled fragments 
of truth which are more irritating than absolute lies. 
“Indeed, it was only two minutes. I did not choose, 
even if I had no other reason, that a man of whom Dr. 
Grey did not approve should hold any communication 
with Arthur.” 

“Thank you, that was right,” said Dr. Grey. 

“Yet you let him walk with you—I know you did, 
up to the very Lodge door.” 

“ To the bridge. Miss Gascoigne.” 

“Well, it’s all the same. And I must confess it is 
most extraordinary conduct. To refuse a gentleman’s 
visits—his open visits here—on the pretext that he is not 


204 


ChristiaiCs Misiake. 


good enough for your society, and then meet him, sit with 
him, walk with him in the college grounds! What will 
people say ?” 

Christian turned like a hunted creature at bay. “I do 
not care—not a jot, what people sa3^” 

“I thought not. People like you never do care. 
They fly in the face of society ; they—” 

“ Husband!” with a sort of wild appeal, the first she 
had ever made for protection—for at least justice. 

Dr. Grey looked up, started out of a long fit of thought¬ 
fulness—sadness it might be, during which he had let the 
conversation pass him by. 

“The only thing I care for is what my husband thinks. 
If he blames me—” 

“What for, my dear?” 

“Because, when I was walking in the college grounds, 
as any lady may walk, that man. Sir Edwin Uniacke, 
whose acquaintance I desire as little as you do, came up 
and spoke to me, or rather to Arthur. I could not help 
it, could I?” 

“No, my child,” with a slight emphasis on the words 
“my child,” that went to Christian’s heart. Yes, surely, 
if she had only had courage to tell him, in his large ten¬ 
derness he could have understood that childish folly, the 
dream of a day, and the long misery it had brought her. 
She would tell him all the very first opportunity; how¬ 
ever much it pained and humiliated her, she would tell 
her good husband all. 

“And, papa, have I been naughty too?” said Arthur. 
“I am sure I did not see any thing so very dreadful in 
Sir Edwin. He came up and spoke to mother as if he 


Christian's Mistake. 


205 


knew her quite well, and then he talked ever so much to 
me, and said if I would visit him he would give me a 
boat to row, and a horse to ride. And I’m sure he seem¬ 
ed the very kindest, pleasantest gentleman.” 

“So he is; and nothing shall ever make me believe 
he isn’t,” cried Miss Gascoigne, always delighted to pull 
against the tide. “ And I must say. Dr. Grey, the way 
you and your wife set up your opinion against that of 
really good society is perfect nonsense. For my part, 
when I have a house of my own once more, and can 
invite whomsoever I please—” 

“I would nevertheless advise, so far as a brother may,” 
interrupted Dr. Grey, very seriously, “that you do not in¬ 
vite Sir Edwin Uniacke*. And now, aunts both,” with 
that sunshiny smile which could disperse almost any do¬ 
mestic cloud, “as this conversation is not particularly in¬ 
teresting to the children, suppose we end it. When do 
you intend to have us all to tea at Avonside?” 


206 


Christia7i’s Mistake. 


CHAPTER Xn. 

** Forgive us each his daily sins, 

If few or many, great or small; 

And those that sin against us. Lord, 

Good Lord ! forgive them all. 

“Judge us not as we others judge; 

Condemn us not as we condemn; 

They who are merciless to us. 

Be merciful to them. 

“And if the cruel storm should pass. 

And let Thy heaven of jjeace a])poar, 

Make not our right the right—or might. 

But make the right shine clear.’' 

‘‘ Well, the least I can say of it is that it is very ex* 
traordinary!’’ 

“ What is extraordinary ?” asked Miss Grey, looking 
up placidly from her knitting, which did not get on very 
fast now. 

For Aunt Maria was exceedingly busy and exceeding¬ 
ly happy. If ever her brother or his wife had the least 
qualms of conscience about her removal from the Lodge 
to Avonside, thc}^ would have been dispelled by the sight 
of the dear little fat woman trotting about, the picture of 
content, full of housekeeping plans, and schemes for her 
poultry-yard, her pigeon-house, and her green-house. As 
for her garden, it was a source of perpetual pride, won- 


Christian's Mistake. 


207 


der, and delight. The three years which she had spent 
at the Lodge — which, in her secret heart, she owned 
were rather dull and trying years—-were ended. She 
herself, and, indeed, the whole establishment, resumed 
again exactly the place they had filled in the lifetime of 
the first Mrs. Grey. Avonside became once more a reg¬ 
ular aunt’s house—devoted to children, who now, at the 
distance of a mile and a half, thought nothing so delight¬ 
ful as to spend long days there, and be petted by Aunt 
Maria. 

The sudden revolution had succeeded—as honest rev¬ 
olutions usually do, when any one has the courage to at 
tempt them—to break through a false domestic position, 
and supply it with a true one. Even Miss Gascoigne 
was the happier for it; less worried in her mind, having 
no feeling of domestic responsibilit}^, and being no lon¬ 
ger haunted by the children. The poor little souls! she 
could get on well enough with them for an hour or two 
at Avonside, but they had been a sore affliction to her at 
the Lodge. Any woman who can not wholly set aside 
self is sure to be tormented by, and be a still worse tor¬ 
ment to, children. 

No; much as she pitied herself, and condoled with 
Aunt Maria every hour in the day. Aunt Henrietta was 
a great deal better in every way since she came to Avon- 
siJe—less cross, less ill-natured ; even her perpetual mill- 
stream of talk flowed on without such violent outbreaks 
of wrath against the whole world as had embittered the 
atmosphere of the Lodge. Now, though her answer was 
sharp, it was not so sharp as it might have been—would 
certainly have been—a few weeks before. 


208 


Christian^ Mistake. 


“ Maria, I don’t think you ever do listen to me when 
I’m talking. I am afraid all I say goes in at one ear and 
out at the other,” which was not impossible, perhaps not 
unfortunate; otherwise, since Miss Gascoigne talked pret¬ 
ty nearly all day long. Miss Grey’s whole life might have 
been spent in listening. She replied, with a meek smile, 
“ Oh no, dear Henrietta!” 

“ Then you surely would have made some observation 
on what I have been telling you—this very extraordina¬ 
ry thing which Miss Smiles told me last night at the 
Lodge, while Mrs. Grey was singing—as I forewarned 
you, Mrs. Grey sings every where now—and her hus¬ 
band lets her do it—likes it, too!—he actually told me it 
was a pleasure to him that his wife should make herself 
agreeable to other people. They mean to give tea-par¬ 
ties once a week to the undergraduates at Saint Bede’s, 
because she says the master ought to be like a father 
over them, invite them and make his house pleasant to 
them. Such a thing was never heard of in our days.” 

“No; but I dare say dear Arnold knows best. And 
what about Miss Smiles?” 

“ I’ve told you twenty times already, Maria, how Miss 
Smiles said that Mrs. Brereton said—you know Mrs. 
Brereton, who has so many children, and never can keep 
a governess long—that her new governess, who happens 
to be Miss Susan Bennett, whom, you may remember, I 
once got for Letitia—told her a long story about Mrs. 
Grey and Sir Edwin Uniacke—how he was an old ac¬ 
quaintance of hers before she was married.” 

“Of Christian’s? She never said so. Oh no! it can’t 
be, or she would have said so.” 


Christiaii's Mistake, 


209 


“ Don’t be too sure of that,” said Aunt Henrietta, mys¬ 
teriously. 

“ Besides, she dislikes him. You know, Henrietta, that 
when he called here last week, and she happened to be 
with us, she put on her bonnet and went home immedi¬ 
ately, without seeing him.” 

“And a very rude thing, too, on her part. Any visit¬ 
ors whom I choose to invite to my house—” 

“But he invited himself.” 

“No matter, he came; and I certainly had no reason 
to turn him out. I consider Dr. Grey’s objections to him 
perfectly ridiculous. Why, one meets the young man 
every where, in the very best society, and his manners 
are charming. But that is not the question. The ques¬ 
tion is just this: Was he, or was he not, an acquaintance 
of Mrs. Grey’s before her marriage? and if he were, why 
did she not say so?” 

“ Perhaps she did.” 

“ Not to me; when he called at the Lodge and I in¬ 
troduced them, they bowed as if they were just ordinary 
strangers. Now that was a rather odd thing, and a very 
disrespectful thing to myself, not to tell me tliey had met 
before. I certainly have a right to be displeased. Don’t 
you feel it so, Maria ?” 

Whether she did or not, Maria only answered with her 
usual deprecatory smile. 

“ There is another curious circumstance, now I recall 
it. Sir Edwin showed great surprise, which, indeed, I 
could scarcely wonder at, when I told him—(I forget how 
it happened, but I know I was somehow obliged to tell 
him)—who it was your brother had married—Miss Oak¬ 
ley, the organist’s daughter.” 


210 


Christian's Mistake. 


“ Don’t you think,” said Aunt Maria, with a sudden 
sparkle of intelligence, “ it might have been her father he 
was acquainted with ? Sir Edwin is so very musical 
himself that it is not unlikely he should seek the com¬ 
pany of musicians. As for Christian”—simple as she 
was. Aunt Maria had not lived fifty years in the world, 
and twenty with Miss Gascoigne, without some small 
acuteness—“ I can see, of course, how very bad it would 
have been for poor Christian to have any acquaintance 
among young gownsmen, and especially with a person 
like Sir Edwin Uniacke.” 

“ He is no worse than his neighbors, and I beg you 
will make no remarks upon him,” said Miss Gascoigne, 
with dignity. “ As to Mrs. Grey—” 

^‘Perhaps,” again suggested Aunt Maria, appealingly, 
“ perhaps it isn’t true. People do say such untrue things. 
•Mrs. Brereton may have imagined it all.” 

“ It was no imagination. Haven’t I told you that Miss 
Bennett gave the whole story, witli full particulars, ex* 
actly as she had learned it lately from the servant at the 
farm where Mr. Oakley and his daughter once lodged, 
and where Mr. Uniacke used to come regularly? Hot 
one day did he miss during a whole month. Now, Ma¬ 
ria, I should be sorry to think ill of her for your broth¬ 
er’s sake • but you must allow, when a young person in 
her station receives constant visits from young gentle¬ 
men—gentlemen so much above her as Sir Edwin is—it 
looks very like—” 

‘‘Oh, Henrietta,” cried Miss Grey, the womanly feeling 
within her forcing its way, even through her placid non- 
resistance, “do stop I you surely don’t consider what you 
are saying?” 


Christian's Mistake. 


211 


“ 1 am not in the habit of speaking without considera¬ 
tion, and I am, I assure you, perfectly aware what I am 
saying. I say again, that such conduct was not credita¬ 
ble to Miss Oakley. Of course, one could not expect 
from a person like her the same decorum that was natu¬ 
ral to you and me in our girlhood. I do not believe you 
and William ever so much as looked at one another be¬ 
fore you were engaged.” 

A faint light, half tearful, half tender, gleamed in those 
poor, faded blue eyes. “Never mind that now, Henriet¬ 
ta. Consider Christian. It will be a terrible thing if 
any ill-natured stories go about concerning poor dear 
Christian.” 

“ It will, and therefore I am determined, for your broth¬ 
er’s sake, to sift the story to the very bottom. In fact, I 
think—to end all doubt—I shall put the direct question 
myself to Sir Edwin Uniacke.” 

Speak of the— But it would not be fair to quote the 
familiar proverb against the young man who appeared 
that instant standing at the wicket-gate. 

“Well, I never knew such a coincidence,” cried Miss 
Grey. 

“ Such a providence rather,” cried Miss Gascoigne. 
And perhaps, in her strange obliquity of vision, or, rath¬ 
er, in that sad preponderance of self which darkened all 
her vision, like a moral cataract in the eye of her soul, 
this woman did actually think Providence was leading 
her toward a solemn duty in the investigating of the past 
history of the forlorn girl whom Dr. Grey had taken as 
his wife. 

“ Speak of an angel and you see his wings,” said she, 


212 


Christian's Mistake. 


with exceeding politeness. “We were just talking about 
you, Sir Edwin.” 

“ Thank you; and for your charming parody on the 
old proverb likewisa I hope I am not the angel of dark¬ 
ness, anyhow.” 

He did not look like it—this graceful, handsome young 
man, gifted with that peculiar sort of beauty which you 
see in Goethe’s face, in Byron’s, indicating what may be 
called the Greek temperament—the nature of the old At¬ 
tic race—sensuous, not sensual; pleasure-loving, passion¬ 
ate, and changeable; not intentionally vicious, but revel¬ 
ing in a sort of glorious enjoyment, intellectual and cor¬ 
poreal, to which every thing else is sacrificed—in short, 
the heathen as opposed to the Christian type of manhood 
—a type, the fascination of which lasts as long as the 
body lasts, and the intellect; when these both fail, and 
there is left to the man only that something which we 
call the soul, the immortal essence, one with Divinity, and 
satisfied with nothing less than the divine—alas for him! 

A keen observer, who had lived twenty years longer 
in the world than he, might, regarding him in all his 
beauty and youth, feel a sentiment not unlike compas¬ 
sion for Edwin Uniacke. 

He sat down, making himself quite at home, though 
this was only his second visit to Avonside Cottage. But 
Miss Gascoigne, if only from love of opposition, had made 
it pretty clear to him that he was welcome there, and that 
she liked him. He enjoyed being liked, and had the easy 
confidence of one who is well used to it. 

“Yes, I am ready to avouch, this is the prettiest little 
paradise within miles of Avonsbridge. No wonder you 


Christian's Mistake, 


213 


should have plenty of visitors. I met a tribe coming 
liere—your sister-in-law (charming person is Mrs. Grey I), 
your nephews and niece, and that gipsy-looking, rather 
handsome nurse, who is a little like the head of Clytie. 
only for her sullen, under-lying mouth and projecting 
chin.” 

“ How you notice faces, Sir Edwin !” 

“Of course. I am a little bit of an artist.” 

“ And a great piece of a musician, as I understand. 
Which reminds me,” added Miss Gascoigne, eager to 
plunge into her mission, which, in her strange delusion, 
she earnestly believed was a worthy and righteous one, 
in which she had embarked for the family benefit —“1 
wanted to ask whether 3^ou did not know Mrs. Grey’s fa¬ 
ther, the organist? And herself too, when she was Miss 
Oakley?” 

“Every body knew Mr. Oakley,” was the evasive an¬ 
swer. “He was a remarkable man — quite a genius, 
with all the faults of a genius. He drank, he ate opium, 
he—” 

“Nay, he is dead,” faintly said Aunt Maria. 

“ Which, 3^ou mean, is a good reason why I should 
speak no more about him. I obey you. Miss Grey.” 

“But his daughter? Did you say you knew his 
daughter ?” pursued Miss Gascoigne. 

“ Oh yes, casually. A charming girl she was! very 
pretty, though immature. Those large, fair women some¬ 
times do not look their best until near thirty. And she 
had a glorious voice. She and I used to sing duets to¬ 
gether continually.” 

He might not have thought what he was doing--it 


214 


Christian's Mistake. 


is but charity to suppose so; that he spoke only after 
his usual careless and somewhat presumptuous style of 
speaking about all women, but he must have been struck 
by the horrified expression of Miss Gascoigne’s face. 

“Sing duets together! a young man in your position, 
and a young woman in hers! Without a mother, too!” 

“Oh, her father was generally present, if you think of 
propriety. But I do assure you. Miss Gascoigne, there 
was not the slightest want of propriety. She was a very 
pretty girl, and I was a young fellow, rather soft, perhaps, 
and so we had a—well, you might call it a trifling flirta¬ 
tion. But nothing of any consequence—nothing, I do 
assure you.” 

“ Of course it was of no consequence,” said Aunt Ma¬ 
ria, again breaking in with a desperate courage. And 
still more desperate were the nods and winks with which 
she at last aroused even Aunt Henrietta to a sense of the 
position into which the conversation was bringing them 
both, so that she, too, had the good feeling to add, 

“ Certainly it is not of the slightest consequence. Dr. 
Grey is probably aware of it all.” 

“ Which may be the reason I am never invited to the 
Lodge,” laughed the young man, so pleasantly that one 
would hardly have paused to consider what he laughed 
at or what it implied. “Bj^-the-b}^, I hear they had such 
a pleasant gathering there last night—a musical evening, 
where every body sang a great deal, and Mrs. Grey only 
once, but then, of course, divinely. I should like to hear 
her again. But look, there are the children. Shall I 
take the liberty of unfastening for them the latch ofyoui 
garden gate?” 


Christian^ Mistake. 


215 


He sprang out of tbe low window, and came back head¬ 
ing the small battalion of visitors—Phillis, Arthur, Leti* 
tia, and Oliver. But Mrs. Grey was not there. She had 
come half way, and returned home alone. 

“Well, I must say that is very odd, considering I in¬ 
vited her to spend the day, and, I think, rather disrespect¬ 
ful to me—to us both, Maria.” 

“ She might have been tired after the party last night,” 
put in Aunt Maria. 

“ No, she wasn’t tired, for she never told me so,” said 
Arthur. “ She told me to say—not you, Phillis, mother 
always trusts me with her messages—that she had gone 
back on account of papa’s wanting her, and that if he 
came to fetch us, she would come here with him in the 
evening.” 

“Very devoted 1 ‘An old man’s darling and a young 
man’s slave,’ runs the proverb; but Mrs. Grey seems to 
reverse it. She will soon never stir out an inch without 
your brother, Maria.” 

“ And I am sure my brother never looks so happy as 
when she is beside him,” said Aunt Maria. “We shall 
quite enjoy seeing them both together to-night.” 

“ And I only wish it had been my good fortune to join 
such a pleasant family party,” observed Sir Edwin Uni- 
acke. 

It was rather too broad a hint, presuming even upon 
Miss Gascoigne’s large courtesy. In dignified silence she 
passed it over, sending the children and Phillis away to 
their early dinner, and after an interval of that lively 
conversation, in which, under no circumstances, did Si)f 
Edwin ever fail, allowing him also to depart. 


216 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


As lie went down the garden, Miss Grey, with great 
dismaj", watched him stop at her beautiful jessamine bow¬ 
er, pull half a dozen of the white stars, smell at them, 
and throw them away. He would have done the same 
—perhaps had done it—with far diviner things than jes¬ 
samine flowers. 

“ Yes,” said Miss Gascoigne, looking after him, and 
then sitting down opposite Miss Grey, spreading out her 
wide silk skirts, and preparing herself solemnly for a 
wordy war—that is, if it could be called a war which was 
all on one side—“ yes, I have come to the bottom of it 
all. I knew I should. Nothing ever escapes me. And 
pray, Maria, what do you. think of her now ?” 

“Think of whom?” 

“You are so dull when 3 ^ou won’t hear. Of your sis¬ 
ter-in-law, Christian Grey.” 

Poor Aunt Maria looked up with a helpless pretense 
of ignorance. “ What about her, Henrietta dear?” 

“ Pshaw! You know as well as I do, only you are so 
obtuse, or so meek.” (A mercy she was, or she would 
never have lived a week, not to say twenty j^ears, with 
Henrietta Gascoigne.) “Once for all, tell me what ^-ou 
propose doing?” 

“Doing? I?” 

“Yes, you. Can’t you see, my dear Maria, that it is 
your business to inform your brother what you have dis¬ 
covered concerning his wife?” 

“ Discovered ?” 

“Certainly; it is a discovery, since she has never told 
it—never told her husband that before her marriage she 
bad been in the habit of singing duets (love-songs, no 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


217 


doubt, most improper for any young woman) with a 
young gentleman of Sir Edwin’s birth and position, who, 
of course, never thought of marrying her—(your broth¬ 
er, I do believe, is the only man in Avonsbridge who 
would have so committed himself) — and who, by the 
light way he speaks of her, evidently shows how little 
respect he had for her.” 

“ Perhaps,” mildly suggested Aunt Maria, “ perhaps 
she really has told dear Arnold.” 

“ Then why did he not tell us—tell me? Why did he 
place me in the very awkward position of not knowing 
of this previous acquaintance of his wife’s? Why, in 
that very unpleasant conversation we had one day at the 
Lodge, was I the only person to be kept in ignorance of 
his reasons—and very good reasons I now see they were 
—for forbidding Sir Edwin’s visits? Singing duets to¬ 
gether! Who knows but that they may meet and sing 
them still? That new piano! and we turned out of the 
house directly afterward—literally turned out! But per¬ 
haps that was the very reason she did it—that she might 
meet him the more freely. Oh, Maria! your poor de¬ 
luded brother!” 

It is strange the way some women have—men too, but 
especially women — of rolling and rolling their small 
snowball of wrath until it grows to an actual mountain, 
which has had dragged into it all sorts, of heterogeneous 
wrongs, and has grown harder and blacker day by day,' 
till no sun of loving-kindness will ever thaw it more. 
In vain did poor Maria ejaculate her pathetic “Oh, Hen¬ 
rietta!” and try, in her feeble way, to put in a kindly 
word or two: nothing availed. Miss Gascoigne had 
K 


218 


Christian''s Mistake. 


lashed herself up into believing firmly every thing she 
had imagined; and it was with an honest expression of 
real grief and pain that she repeated over and over again. 
“ What ought we to do? Your poor, dear brother!” 

For, with all her faults. Miss Gascoigne was a conscien¬ 
tious woman; one who, so far as she saw her duty, tried 
to fulfill it, and as strongly, perhaps a little more so, in¬ 
sisted on other people’s fulfilling theirs. She stood aghast 
at the picture, her own self-painted picture, of the kind 
brother-in-law, of whom in her heart she was really fond, 
married to a false, wicked woman, more than twenty 
years his junior, who mocked at his age and peculiarities, 
and flirted behind his back with any body and every 
body. To do Aunt Henrietta justice, however, of more 
than flirtation she did not suspect—no person with com¬ 
mon sense and ordinary observation could suspect — 
Christian Grey. 

“I must speak to her myself, poor thing I I must 
open her eyes to the danger she is running. Only con¬ 
sider, Maria, if that story did go about Avonsbridge, she 
would never be thought well of in society again. I must 
speak to her. If she will only confide in me implicitly, 
so that I can take her part, and assure every body I meet 
that, however bad appearances may be as regards this 
unlucky story, there is really nothing in it—nothing at 
all—don’t you see, Maria?” 

Alas! Maria had been so long accustomed to look at 
every thing through the vision of dear Henrietta, that 
she had no clear sight of her own whatever. She only 
found courage to say, in a feeble way, 

“ Take care, oh, do take care! I know you are much 


Christian'’s Mistake. 


219 


cleverer than I am, and can manage things far better; 
but oh ! please take care.” 

And when, some hours after. Dr. and Mrs. Grey not 
appearing, she was called into Miss Gascoigne’s room, 
where that lady stood tying her bonnet-strings with a 
determined air, and expressing her intention of going at 
once to the Lodge, however inconvenient, still, all that 
Aunt Maria ventured to plead was that melancholy warn¬ 
ing, generally unheeded by those who delight in playing 
with hot coals and edged tools, as Aunt Henrietta had 
done all her life, “ Take care!” 

In her walk to the Lodge, through the still, sweet au¬ 
tumn evening, with a fairy-like wreath of mist rising up 
above the low-lying meadows of the Avon, and climbing 
slowly up to the college towers, and the far-off sunset 
clouds, whose beauty she never noticed. Miss Gascoigne 
condescended to some passing conversation with Phillis, 
and elicited from her, without betraying any thing, as she 
thought, a good deal—namely, that Sir Edwin Uniacke 
was often seen walking up and down the avenue facing 
the Lodge, and that once or twice he had met and spoken 
to the children. 

“But Mrs. Grey doesn’t like it. I think she wants to 
drop his acquaintance,” said the sharp Phillis, who was 
gaining quite as much information as she bestowed. 

“ Why, did they ever—did she ever”—and then some 
lingering spark of womanly feeling, womanly prudence, 
made Miss Gascoigne hesitate, and add with dignity, 
“Yes, very likely Mrs. Grey may not choose his ao 
quaintance. He is not approved of by every body.” 

“I know that,” said Phillis, meaningly. 


220 


ChrutiarCs Mistake. 


The two women, the lady and the servant, exchanged 
looks. Both were acute persons, and the judgment either 
passed on the other was keen and accurate. Probably 
neither judged herself, or recognized the true root of her 
judgment upon the third person, unfortunate Christian. 
“She has interfered with my management, and stolen the 
hearts of my children “she has annoyed me and resist¬ 
ed my authority,” would never have been given by either 
nurse or aunt as a reason for either their feelings or their 
actions; yet so it was. 

Nevertheless, when in the hall of the Lodge they came 
suddenly face to fice with Mrs. Grey, entering, hat in 
hand, from the door of the private garden, the only place 
where she ever walked alone now, they both started as 
if they had been detected in something wrong. She 
looked so quiet and gentle, grave and sweet, modest as a 
girl and dignified as a young matron—so perfectly un¬ 
conscious of all that was being said or planned against 
her, that if these two malicious women had a conscience 
—and they had, both of them—they must have felt it 
smite them now. 

“ Miss Gascoigne, how kind of j’ou to walk home with 
the children! . Papa and I would have come, but he was 
obliged to dine in Hall. He will soon be free now, and 
will walk back with you. Pray come in and rest; you 
look tired.” 

Mrs. Grey’s words and manner, so perfectly guileless 
and natural, for the moment quite confounded her enemy 
—her enemy, and yet an honest enemy. Of the number 
of cruel things that are done in this world, how many 
are done absolutely for conscience sake by people who 


Christianas Mistake. 


221 


deceive themselves that they are acting from the noblest, 
purest motives—carrying out all the Christian virtues, in 
short, only they do so, not in themselves, but against oth¬ 
er people. And from their list of commandments they 
obliterate one—“Judge not, that ye be not judged; con 
demn not, and ye shall not be condemned.” 

But, for the time being. Miss Gascoigne was puzzled. 
Her stern reproof, her patronizing pity, were alike dis¬ 
armed. Her mountain seemed crumbling to its original 
mole-hill. The heap of accusing evidence which she had 
accumulated dwindled into the most ordinary and com¬ 
monplace facts at sight of Christian’s innocent face and 
placid mien. Nothing could be more unlike a woman 
who had ever contemplated the ordinary “flirting” of so¬ 
ciety. As for any thing worse, the idea was impossible 
to be entertained for a moment. It was simply ridicu¬ 
lous. 

Aunt Henrietta sat a good while talking, quite mild¬ 
ly for her, of ordinary topics, before she attempted to 
broach the real object of her visit. It was only as the 
hour neared for Dr. Grey’s coming in that she nerved 
herself to her mission. She had an uneasy sense that 
it would be carried out better in his absence than in his 
presence. 

Without glancing often at Christian, who sat so peace¬ 
ful, looking out into the fading twilight, she launched her 
thunderbolt at once. 

“We had a visit to-day from Sir Edwin Uniacke.” 

“ So I supposed, since I and the children met him on 
the way to Avonside.” 

n this world, so full of shams, how utterly bewilder- 


222 


Christian"'s Mistake. 


ing sometimes is the direct innocent truth! At this an¬ 
swer of Christian’s Miss Gascoigne looked moi'e amazed 
than if she had been told a dozen lies. 

“ Was that the reason you turned back and went 
home?” 

“ Partly; I really had forgotten something which Dr. 
Grey wanted, but I also wished to avoid meeting your 
visitor.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Surely you must guess. How can I voluntarily meet 
any one who is not a friend of my husband’s?” 

“ Not though he may have been a friend of your own ? 
For, as I understand, you once had a very close acquaint¬ 
ance with Sir Edwin Uniacke.” 

The thrust was so unexpected, so unmistakable in its 
meaning, that Christian, in her startled surprise, said the 
very worst thing she could have said to the malicious 
ears which were held open to every thing and eager to 
misconstrue every thing, “ Who told you that?” 

“Told me! Why all Avonsbridge is talking about 
it, and about you.” 

This was a lie—a little white lie; one of those small 
exaggerations of which people make no account; but 
Christian believed it, and it seemed to wrap her round as 
with a cold mist of fear. All Avonsbridge talking of 
her—her. Dr. Grey’s wife, who had his honor as well as 
her own in her keeping—talking about herself and Sir 
Edwin Uniacke! What? how much? how had the tale 
come about? how could it be met? 

With a sudden instinct of self-preservation, she forci¬ 
bly summoned back her composure. She knew -with 


Christian's Mistake. 


223 


whom she had to deal. She must guard every look, ev¬ 
ery word. 

“Will you tell me, Miss Gascoigne, exactly who is 
talking about me, and what they say ? I am sure I have 
never given occasion for it.” 

“Never? Are you quite certain of that?” 

“Quite certain. Who said I had ‘a very close ac¬ 
quaintance’—were not these your words—with Sir Ed¬ 
win Uniacke?” 

“Himself.” 

“ Himself!” 

Then Christian recognized the whole amount of her 
difficulty—nay, her danger; for she was in the power, 
not of a gentleman, but of a villain. Any man must 
have been such who, under the circumstances, could have 
boasted of their former acquaintance, or even referred to 
it at all. 

“ Kiss and tell 1” runs the disdainful proveib. And 
even the worldliest of men, in their low code of honor, 
count the thing base and ignoble. Alas! all women do 
not. 

In the strangely mistaken code of feminine “ honora¬ 
bleness,” it is deemed no disgrace for a woman to chatter 
and boast of a man’s love, but the utmost disgrace for 
her to own or feel on her side any love at all. But 
Christian was unlike her sex in some things. To her, 
with her creed of love, it would have appeared far less 
mean, less cowardly, less dishonorable, openly to confess, 
“I loved this man,” than to betray “This man loved 
me.” And it was with almost contemptuous indignation 
that she repeated, “ What! he told it himself?” 


224 


Christianas Mistake. 


“ He did. I first heard it through Miss Bennett, your 
'protegee^ who has come back, and is now a governess at 
Mrs. Brereton’s. But when I questioned Sir Edwin him¬ 
self, he did not deny it.” 

“ You questioned him?” 

“ Certainly. I felt it to be my duty. He says that he 
knew you in your father’s lifetime; that he was intimate 
with you both; that you and he used to sing duets to¬ 
gether; in short, that—” 

“ Go on. I wish to hear it all.” 

“ That is all. And I am sure, Mrs. Grey, it is enough.” 

“It is enough. And he has been saying this, and 
you have been listening to it, perhaps repeating it to all 
Avonsbridge. What a wicked woman you must be!” 

The words were said, not fiercely or resentfully, but 
in a sort of meditative, passive despair. A sense of the 
wickedness, the cruelty there was in the world, the hope¬ 
lessness of struggling against it, of disentangling fact from 
falsehood, of silencing malice and disarming envy, came 
upon Christian in a fit of bitterness uncontrollable. She 
felt as if she could cry out, like David, “The waters have 
overwhelmed me, the deep waters have gone over my 
soul.” 

Even if she were not blameless—who is blameless in 
this mortal life?—even if she had made a mistake—a 
great mistake—her punishment was sharp Just now, 
when happiness was dawning upon her, when the re¬ 
morse for her hasty marriage and lack of love toward her 
husband had died away, when her heart was beginning 
to leap at the sound of his step, and her whole soul to 
sun itself in the tender light of his loving eyes, it was 
very, very hard 1 


Christianas Mistake. 


225 


Well, Mrs. Grey, and what have you to say for your¬ 
self?” 

Christian looked up instinctively—lifted her passive 
hands, and folded them on her lap, but answered nothing. 

“ You must see,” continued Miss Gascoigne, “ what an 
exceedingly unpleasant story it is, and how necessary it 
was for me to speak about it. Such a matter easily might 
become the whole town’s talk. An acquaintance before 
your marriage, which you kept so scrupulously concealed 
that your nearest connections—I myself even—had not 
the slightest idea of it! You must perceive, Mrs. Grey, 
what conclusions people will draw—indeed, can not help 
drawing. Not that/believe—I assure you I don’t—one 
word against you. Only confide in me, and I will make 
the matter clear to all Avonsbridge. You hear me?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And now, my dear”—the energy of her protection 
making Aunt Henrietta actually affectionate—“ do speak 
out. Tell me all you have to say for yourself.” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Nothing? What do you mean ?” 

It may seem an odd thing to assert, and a more diffi¬ 
cult thing still to prove, but Miss Gascoigne was not at 
heart a bad woman. She had a fierce temper and an 
enormous egotism, yet these two qualities, in the strange¬ 
ly composite characters that one meets with in life, are 
not incompatible with many good qualities. 

Pain, most sincere and undisguised, not unminglcd 
with actual pity, was visible in Miss Gascoigne’s counte¬ 
nance as she looked on the young creature before her, to 
whom her words had caused such violent emotion. For 
K 2 


226 


Christia7i's Mistake. 


this emotion her narrow nature—always so ready to look 
on human nature in its worst side, and to suspect wher¬ 
ever suspicion could alight—found but one interpretation 
—guilt. 

She drew back, terrified at what her interference had 
done. What if the story should prove to be, not mere 
idle gossip, but actual scandal—the sort of scandal which 
would cast a slur forever on the whole Grey family, her¬ 
self included ? 

There, above all, the fear struck home. Suppose she 
had meddled in a matter which no lady could touch with¬ 
out indecorum, perhaps actual defilement? Suppose, in 
answer to her entreaty, Christian should confide to her 
something which no lady ought to hear? What a fear¬ 
ful position for her—Miss Gascoigne—to be placed in ! 
What should she say to Dr. Grey ? 

Hard as her heart might be, this thought touched the 
one soft place in it. Her voice actually trembled as she 
said, 

“ Your poor husband! what will become of him ?” 

Christian sprang up with a shrill cry. “Yes, yes! I 
know what I will do. I will go and tell my husband.” 

Miss Gascoigne thought she was mad. And, indeed, 
there was something almost frenzied in the way her vic¬ 
tim rushed from the room, like a creature driven desper¬ 
ate by misery. 

Aunt Henrietta did not know how to act. To follow 
Christian was quite beneath her dignity; to go home, 
with her mission unfulfilled, her duty undone, that too 
was impossible. She determined to wait a few minutes, 
and let things take their chance. 


Christian's Mistake. 


227 


Miss Gascoigne was not a bad woman, only an utterly 
mistaken and misguided one. She meant no harm—very 
few people do deliberately mean harm—they only do it. 
She had set herself against her brother-in-law’s marriage 
— not in the abstract, she was scarcely so wicked and 
foolish as that; but against his marrying this particular 
woman, partly because Christian was only a governess, 
with somewhat painful antecedents—one who could nei¬ 
ther bring money, rank, nor position to Dr. Grey and his 
family, but chiefly because it had wounded her self-love 
that she, Miss Gascoigne, had not been consulted, and had 
had no hand in bringing about the marriage. 

Therefore she had determined to see it, and all con¬ 
cerning it, in the very worst light; to modify nothing, to 
excuse nothing. She had made up her mind that things 
w’^ere to be so and so, and so and so they must of necessi¬ 
ty turn out. Audi alteram partem was an idea that nev¬ 
er occurred, never had occurred in all her life to Henri¬ 
etta Gascoigne. In fact, she would never have believed 
there could be “ another side,” since she herself was not 
able to behold it. 

Yet she had not a cruel nature, and the misery she en¬ 
dured during the few minutes that she sat thinking of 
the blow that was about to fall on Dr. Grey and his fam¬ 
ily, heaping on the picture every exaggerated imagina¬ 
tion of a mind always prone to paint things in violent 
colors, was enough to atone for half the wrong she had 
done. 

She started up like a guilty creature when the dooi* 
opened, and Phillis entered with a letter in her hand. 

“ Beg pardon, ma’am. I thought you were Mrs. Grey.” 


228 


Christian's Mistake. 


“She is just gone up stairs—will be back directly,’' 
said Miss Gascoigne, anxious to keep up appearances to 
the last available moment. “ Is that letter for her? Shall 
I give it to her?” 

“ No, thank you. I’ll give it myself; and it’ll be the 
last that ever I will give, for it isn’t my business,” add¬ 
ed Phillis, flustered and indignant, so much so that she 
dropped the letter on the floor. 

By the light of a small taper there was a mutual search 
for it—why mutual Miss Gascoigne best knew. It was 
she who picked it up, and before she had delivered it 
back she had clearly seen it all—handwriting, seal, and 
tinted envelope, with the initials “ E. U.” on the corner. 

Some hidden feeling in both of them, the lady and the 
servant, some last remnant of pity and charity, prevented 
their confiding openly in one another, even if Miss Gas¬ 
coigne could have condescended so far. But she knew 
as well as if Phillis had told, and Phillis likewise was 
perfectly aware she knew, that the note came from Sir 
Edwin Uniacke. 

Poor Aunt Henrietta! She was so horrified—literally 
horrified, that she could bear no more. She left no mes¬ 
sage—waited for nobody—but hurried back, as fast as 
she could walk, through twilight, to her owu cottage at 
Avonside. 


Christiaii's Mistake, 


229 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“Peace on eartli, and mercy mild, 

Sing the angels, reconciled; 

Over each sad warfare done, 

Each soul-battle lost and won. 

“ He that has a victory lost 
May discomfit yet a host; 

And, it often doth befall. 

He who conquers loses all.” 

Christian, after sitting waiting in the study for a 
long hour, received a message from her husband that he 
would not be home that night. He had to take a sud¬ 
den journey of twenty miles on some urgent affairs. 
This was not unusual. Dr. Grey was one of those peo¬ 
ple whom all their friends come to in any emergency, 
and the amount of other people’s business, especially 
painful business, which he was expected to transact, and 
did transact, out of pure benevolence, was incalculable. 

So his wife had to wait still. She submitted as to fa¬ 
tality, laid her head on her pillow, and fell at once into 
that dull, stupid sleep which mercifully comes to some 
people, and always came to her, in heavy trouble. She 
did not wake from it till late in the following morning. 

A great dread, like a great joy, always lies in ambush, 
ready to leap upon us the instant we open our eyes. 
Had Miss Gascoigne known what a horrible monster it 


230 


ChristiaiCs Mistake. 


was, like a tiger at her throat, which sprang upon Chris¬ 
tian when she waked that morning, she, even she, might 
nave felt remorseful for the pain she had caused. Yet 
perhaps she would not. In this weary life of ours, 

darkness and the death-hour rounding it,” 

it is strange how many people seem actually to enjoy 
making other people miserable. 

Christian rose and dressed; for her household ways 
must go on as usual; she must take her place at the 
break fast-table, and make it cheerful and pleasant, so 
that the children might not find out any thing wrong 
with mother. She did so, and sent them away to their 
morning play—happy little souls! Then she sat down 
to think for a little, all alone. 

Not what to do—that was already decided; but how 
to do it—how to tell Dr. Grey in the least painful way 
that his love had not been the first love she had received 
—and given; that she had had this secret, and kept it 
from him, though he was her husband, for six whole 
months. 

Oh, had she but told him before her marriage, long, 
long ago 1 Now, he might think she only did it out of 
fear, dread of public opinion, or seeking protection from 
the public scandal that might overtake her, however in¬ 
nocent For was she not in the hands of an unscrupu¬ 
lous man and a malicious woman? It was hopeless to 
defend herself. Why should she attempt it? Had she 
not better let herself be killed—she sometimes thought 
she should be killed, to so great a height of morbid dread 
had risen her secret agony—and die, quietly, silently, 


Christian's Mistake, 


231 


thus escaping out of the hands of her enemies, who pur¬ 
sued her with this relentless hatred. 

Dying might have felt easier to her but for one fact— 
she loved her husband—loved him, as she now knew, so 
passionately, so engrossingly, that all this misery con¬ 
verged in one single fear—the fear that she might lose 
his love. What the world thought of her—what Miss 
Gascoigne thought of her, became of little account. All 
she dreaded was what Dr. Grey would think. Would 
he, in his large, tender, compassionate heart, on hearing 
her confession, say only “Poor thing! she could not help 
it; she was foolish and young,” or would he feel she had 
deceived him, and cast her off from his trust, his respect, 
his love for evermore ? 

In either case she hesitated not for a moment. Love, 
bought by a deception, she knew to be absolutely worth¬ 
less. Knowing now what love was, she knew this truth 
also. Had no discovery been made, slie knew that she 
must have told all to Dr. Grey. She hated, despised her¬ 
self for having already suffered day after day to pass by 
without telling him, though she had continually intended 
to do it. All this was a just punishment for her coward¬ 
ice ; for she saw now, ns she had never seen before, that 
every husband, every wife, before entering into the sol¬ 
emn bond of marriage, has a right to be made acquaint¬ 
ed with every secret of the other’s heart, every event 
of the other’s life; that such confidence, then and after¬ 
ward, should know no reservations, save and except trusts 
reposed in both before marriage by other people, which 
marriage itself is not justified in considering annulled. 

Buf the final moment being come, when a dny—half 


232 


Christian's MistaJce, 


a day—would decide it all—decide the whole future of 
herself and her husband, Christian’s courage seemed to 
return. 

She sat trembling, yet not altogether hopeless; very 
humble, and yet strong, with the strength that the in¬ 
ward consciousness of deeply loving—not of being loved, 
but of loving—always gives to a woman, and waited till 
Dr. Grey came home. 

When the parlor door opened she rushed forward, 
thinking it was he, but it was only Phillis—Phillis, look¬ 
ing insolent, self-important, contemptuous, as she held out 
to her mistress a letter. 

“ There! Pve took it in for once, and given it to you, 
by yourself, as he bade me, but I’ll never take in anoth¬ 
er. I’m an honest woman, and my master has been a 
good master to me.” 

“ Phillis!” cried Mrs. Grey, astonished. But when she 
saw the letter she was astonished no more. 

The tinted perfumed paper, the large seal, the dainty 
handwriting, all were familiar of old. 

Fierce indignation, unutterable contempt, and then a 
writhing sense of personal shame, as if she were somehow 
accountable for this insult, swept by turns over Chris¬ 
tian’s soul, until she recollected that she must betray 
nothing; for more than her own sake—her husband’s— 
she must not put herself in her servant’s power. 

So she did not throw the letter in the fire, or stamp 
upon it, or do any of the frantic things she was tempted 
to do; she held it in her hand like a common note, and 
said calmly, 

“Who brought this? and when did it come?’' 


Christian's Mistake. 


233 


‘‘Last night, only I couldn’t find you. It was nigh 
dropping into Miss Gascoigne’s hands, and a pretty mess 
that would have been. And I warn you—you had bet¬ 
ter mind what you are about—Miss Susan Bennett told 
me all about it; and a nice little story it is, too, for a 
married lady. And Miss Gascoigne has scented it out, 
[’ll be bound; and if Dr. Grey once gets hold of it—” 

“ Stop!” said Christian, firmly, though she felt her 
very lips turning white. “You are under some extra¬ 
ordinary delusion. There is nothing to be got hold of. 
Take this letter to my husband’s study—it is his affair. 
I have no communications whatever with Sir Edwin Uni- 
acke.” 

Phillis looked utterly amazed. Though her mistress 
did not speak another word, there was something in her 
manner—her perfect, quiet conviction of innocence, self- 
asserted, though without any open self-defense, which 
struck the woman more than any amount of anger would 
have done. 

“ If I’ve made a mistake, I’m sure I beg your pardon, 
ma’am,” began she, quite humbly. 

“ What for? Except for receiving and bringing to me 
privately a letter which should have been left with Bar¬ 
ker at the door, it being Barker’s business, and not yours. 
Kemember that another time. Now take the letter to 
the study, and go.” 

Phillis hesitated. She looked again and again at that 
calm, proud, innocent lady, whom she had so wickedly 
misjudged and maligned, how far and how fatally her 
own conscience alone could tell. And Phillis knew what 
innocence was, for, poor woman^ she had known what it 


234 


Christian's Mistake. 


was not. Malice also slie knew; and, judging her mis¬ 
tress by herself, she trembled. 

“ If you’re going to bear spite against me for this, I’d 
best give warning at once, Mrs. Grey—only it would nigh 
break my heart to leave the children.” 

“ I have no wish for you to leave the children, and I 
never bear spite against any body. Life is not long 
enough for it,” added Mrs. Grey, sighing. Then, with a 
sudden impulse, if by any means she could smooth mat¬ 
ters and win a little household peace, “ I desire to be a 
good mistress to you, Phillis; why should you not be a 
good servant to me? You love the children; you are to 
them a most faithful nurse; why can not you believe 
that I shall be a faithful mother? Let us turn over a 
new leaf, and begin again.” 

She held out her hand, and Phillis took it; looked 
hard in her mistress’s face—the kind, friendly face, that 
was not ashamed to be a friend even to a poor servant; 
then, with somejihing very like a sobj she turned and ran 
out of the room. 

But when she was gone Christian sank down exhaust¬ 
ed. With a desperate self-control she had wrenched her¬ 
self out of Phillis’s power, she had saved herself and her 
husband from the suspicion that it was possible Dr. Grey’s 
wife could receive, or give occasion to receive, a secret 
letter, a love-letter, from any man; but when the effort 
was over she broke down. Convulsive sobs, one after 
the other, shook her, until she felt as if her very life were 
departing. And in the midst of this agony appeared— 
Miss Gascoigne. 

Aunt Henrietta had spent the whole night, except a 


Christiarts Mistake. 


235 


brief space for sleeping, in thinking over and talking 
over her duties and her wrongs, the two being mixed 
up together in inextinguishable confusion. Almost any 
subject, after being churned up in such a nature as hers 
for twelve mortal hours, would at the end look quite dif¬ 
ferent from what it did at first, or what it really was. 
And so, with all honesty of purpose, and with the firmest 
conviction that it was the only means of saving her 
brother-in-law and his family from irretrievable misery 
and disgrace, poor Miss Gascoigne had broken through 
all her habits, risen, dressed, and breakfasted at an un¬ 
earthly hour, and there she stood at the Lodge door at 
nine in the morning, determined to “ do her dutj^,” as 
she expressed it, but looking miserably pale, and vainly 
restraining her agitation so as to keep up a good appear¬ 
ance “ before the servants.” 

“That will do. Barker. You need not disturb the 
master; I came at this early hour just for a little chat 
with your mistress and the children.” 

And then entering the parlor, she sat down opposite 
to Christian to take breath. 

Miss Gascoigne was really to be pitied. Mere gossip 
she enjoyed ; it was her native element, and she had 
plunged into this matter of Sir Edwin Uniacke with un¬ 
deniable eagerness. But now, when it might be not gos¬ 
sip, but disgrace, her terror overpowered her. For dis¬ 
grace, discredit in the world’s eye, was the only form the 
matter took to this worldly woman, who rarely looked on 
things except on the outside. Guilt, misery, and their 
opposites, which alone give strength to battle with them, 
were things too deep to be fathomed in the slightest de¬ 
gree by Miss Gascoigne. 


236 


Christianas Mistake. 


Therefore, as her looks showed, she was not so much 
shocked as simply frightened, and had come to the Lodge 
with a frantic notion of hushing up the matter somehow, 
whatever it was. Her principal terror was, not so much 
the sin itself, but lest the world might hear of it. 

“ You see, Mrs. Grey, I am come again,” said she, very 
earnestly. “In spite of every thing, I have come back 
to advise with you. I am ready to overlook every thing, 
to try and conceal every thing. Maria and I have been 
turning over in our minds all sorts of plans to get you 
away till this has blown over—call it going to the sea¬ 
side, to the country with Arthur—any thing, in short, 
just that you may leave Avonsbndge.” 

“ I leave Avonsbridge ? Why ?” 

“ You know why. When you had a lover before your 
marriage, of whom you did not tell your husband or his 
friends—when this gentleman afterward meets you, writes 
to you—I saw the letter—” 

“ You saw the letter!” 

There was no hope. She was hunted down, as many 
an innocent person has been before now, by a combina¬ 
tion of evidence, half truths, half lies, or truths so twisted 
that they assume the aspect of lies, and lies so exceeding¬ 
ly probable that they are by even keen observers mistak¬ 
en for truth. Passive and powerless Christian sat. Miss 
Gascoigne might say what she would—all Avonsbridge 
might say what it would—she would never open her lips 
more. 

At that moment, to preserve her from going mad—(she 
felt as if she were—as if the whole world were whirling 
round, and God had forgotten her)—Dr. Grey walked ia 


Christian's Mistake, 


237 


“Oh, husband! save me from her—save me—save 
me 1” she shrieked, again and again. And without one 
thought except that he was there—her one protector, de¬ 
fender, and stay—she sprang to him, and clung desperate¬ 
ly to his breast. 

And so, in this unforeseen and unpremeditated man¬ 
ner, told—how or by whom, herself. Miss Gascoigne, or 
both together, Christian never clearly remembered—her 
one secret, the one error of her sad girlhood was com¬ 
municated to her husband. 

He took the revelation calmly enough, as he did every 
thing; Dr.Grey was not the man for tragic scenes. The 
utmost he seemed to think of in this one was calming and 
soothing his wife as much as possible, carrying her to the 
sofa, making her lie down, and leaning over her with a 
sort of pitying tenderness, of which the only audible ex¬ 
pression was, “Poor child ! poor child 1” 

Christian tried to see his face, but could not. She 
sought feebly for his hand—his warm, firm^ protecting 
hand—and felt him take hers in it Then she knew that 
she was safe. 

No, he never would forsake her. He had loved her— 
once and for always—with the love that has strength to 
hold its own through every thing and in spite of every 
thing. Whatever she was, whatever the world might 
think her, she was his wife, and he loved her. She crept 
into her husband’s bosom, knowing that it was her sur^ 
refuge, never to be closed against her until she died. 

The next thing she remembered was his speaking t(? 
Miss Gascoigne—not harshly, or as if in great mental suf 
fering, but in his natural voice. 


238 


Christian's Mistake. 


"‘And now, Henrietta, just tell me the utmost you 
have to allege against my wife. That Sir Edwin was 
known to her father and herself, of which acquaintance 
she never told her husband; that she has accidentally 
met him since a few times; and that he has been rude 
enough to address a letter to her—where is it?” 

It was lying on the table, for Phillis, in her precipitate 
disappearance, had forgotten it. Dr. Grey put it into his 
pocket unopened. 

“Well, Aunt Henrietta, is that all? Have you any 
more to say, any thing else of which to accuse my wife? 
Say it all out, only remember one thing, that you are saj- 
ing it to a man, and about his wife.” 

Brief as the words were, they implied volumes — all 
that Dr. Grey was, and every honest man should be, to¬ 
ward his wife, whom he has taken to himself, to cherish 
and protect, if necessary, against the whole world—every 
thing for which the bond of marriage was ordained, to be 
maintained unannulled by time, or change, or faultiness, 
perhaps even actual sin. One has heard of such guard¬ 
ianship—of a husband pitying and protecting till death 
a wife who had sinned against him; and if possible to 
any man, this would have been possible to one like Ar¬ 
nold Grey. 

But in his manner was not only protection, there was 
also love—the sort of love which passionate youth can 
seldom understand; but Paul the apostle did, unmarried 
though he was, when he spoke in such mystical language 
of a husband’s “nourishing and cherishing” his wife “as 
tlie Lord the Church.” And now Christian seemed to 
comprehend this, when, looking up to her husband, she 


ChristiaiCs Mistake. 


239 


felt that he was also her “lord,” ruling and guiding 
her less by harsh authority than by the perfect law of 
love. 

“Nay,” she said, faintly, “don’t blame your sister; she 
meant no harm, nor did 1. I only—” 

“Hush!” Dr. Grey replied, laying his hand upon her 
mouth; “that is a matter solely between you and your 
husband.” 

But whether, thus met at all points. Miss Gascoigne 
began to doubt whether her mountain were not a mere 
molehill after all, or whether she involuntarily succumb¬ 
ed to the influence of such honest love, such unbounded 
trust, and felt that to interfere farther between this hus¬ 
band and wife would be not only hopeless, but wicked, 
is impossible to say. Perhaps—let us give her the cred¬ 
it of a good motive rather than a bad one—she really 
felt she had been wrong, was moved and softened, and 
brought to a better mind. 

In any case, that happened w^hich had never been 
known to happen before in Miss Gascoigne’s existence— 
when asked to speak she had literally nothing to say 1 

“Then,” continued Dr. Grey, good - humored !y, still 
holding his wife’s hand, and sitting beside hor on the 
sofa, “this mighty matter may come to an end, which is, 
indeed, the best thing for it. Since I am quite satisfied 
concerning my wife, I conclude my sister may be. We 
will consider the subject closed. Make friends, you two. 
Christian, will you not?” 

Christian rose. She had never kissed Miss Gascoigne 
in her life, had had no encouragement to do it, and it 
would have seemed a piece of actual hypocrisy. Now it 


240 


Christiaii's Mistake. 


was not. The kiss of affection it could hardly be, but 
there is such a thing as the kiss of peace. 

She rose and went, white and tottering as she was, 
across the room to where Miss Gascoigne sat, hard, bitter, 
and silent, determined that not a step should be taken on 
her side—she would not be the first to “ make friends.” 

“Forgive me. Aunt Henrietta, if I ever offended you. 
I did not mean it. Let us try to get on better for the 
future. We ought, for we are both so fond of the chil¬ 
dren and of Arnold.” 

Such simple words, such a natural feeling! if that hard 
heart were only natural and soft enough to take it in. 
And it was—for once. 

Miss Gascoigne looked incredulously up, then down 
again, in a shamefaced, uncomfortable way, then held out 
her hand, and kissed Christian, while two tears— ^only two 
—gathered and dropped from her eyes. 

But the worst was over. The ice was broken and the 
stream ran clear. How long it would run good angels 
only could tell. But they sang, and kept on singing, all 
that day, in Christian’s heart, the song of peace—“peace 
on earth”—for the battle was over and the foes were rec¬ 
onciled. 


Christian's Mistake. 


241 


CHAPTER XIV. 

It may be under palace roof, 

Princely and wide; 

No pomp foregone, no pleasure lost, 

No wish denied; 

But if beneath the diamonds’ flash 
Sweet, kind eyes hide, 

A pleasant place, a happy place, 

Is our fireside. 

“ It may be ’twixt four lowly walls. 

No show, no pride; 

Where sorrows ofttimes enter in, 

But ne’er abide. 

Yet, if she sits beside the hearth. 

Help, comfort, guide, 

A blessed place, a heavenly place, 

Is our fireside.’’ 

The very instant Miss Gascoigne was gone, Christian, 
throwing herself on her husband’s neck, clasping him, 
clinging to him, ready almost to fling herself at his knees 
in her passion of humility and love, told him without re¬ 
serve, without one pang of hesitation or shame—perhaps, 
indeed, there was little or nothing to be ashamed of—ev¬ 
ery thing concerning herself and Edwin Uniacke. 

He listened, not making any answer, but only holding 
her fast in his arms, till at length she took courage to 
look up in his face. 

L 


242 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


“ What! you are not angry or grieved ? Naj^, I could 
fancy .you were almost smiling.” 

“ Yes, my child ! Because, to tell you the plain truth, 
I knew all this before.” 

“ Knew it before!” cried Christian, in the utmost aston¬ 
ishment. 

“I really did. Nobody told me. I found it out—• 
found it out even before I knew you. It was the stran¬ 
gest thing, and yet quite natural.” 

And then he explained to her that, after the disgrace¬ 
ful circumstance occurred which caused Mr. Uniacke’s 
rustication, he had fled, from justice it might be, or, in 
any case, from the dread of it, leaving all his papers open, 
and his rooms at the mercy of all comers. But, of course, 
the master and dean of his college had taken immediate 
possession there; and Dr. Grey, being known to the 
young man’s widowed mother, from whom he had re¬ 
ceived much kindness in his youth, was deputed by her 
to overlook every thing, and investigate every thing, if 
by any means his relatives might arrive at the real truth 
of that shameful story which, now as heretofore. Dr. Grey 
passed over unexplained. 

“ It would serve no purpose to tell it,” he said, “ and 
it is all safely ended now.” 

How far his own strong, clear common sense and jusi 
judgment had succeeded in hushing it up, and saving 
the young man from a ruined life, and his family from 
intolerable disgrace, Dr. Grey was not likely to say. But 
his wife guessed all, then and afterward. 

He proceeded to tell her how, in searching these pa¬ 
pers, among a heap of discreditable letters he had lighted 


Christimi^s Mistake. 


243 


upon two or three, pure as white lilies found lying upon 
a refuse heap, signed “Christian Oakley.” 

“ I read them—I was obliged to read them—but I did 
so privately, and I put them in my pocket before tha 
dean saw them. No one ever cast eyes upon them ex¬ 
cept myself. I took them home with me and kept them. 
And I keep them now, for they first taught me what she 
was—this chosen wife of mine. They let me into the se¬ 
cret of that simple, gentle, innocent, girlish heart; they 
made me feel the worth of it, even though it was being 
thrown away on a worthless man. And I suspect, from 
that time I wanted it for my own.” 

He went on to say how he had first made acquaint¬ 
ance with her—on business grounds partly, connected 
with her father’s sudden death, but also intending, as soon 
as he felt himself warranted in taking such a liberty, to 
return these letters, and tell her in a plain, honest, father¬ 
ly manner what a risk she had run, and what a merciful 
escape she had made from this young man, who. Dr. Grey 
then felt certain, would never again dare to appear at 
Avonsbridge. 

But the opportunity never came. The “ fatherly” feel¬ 
ing was swallowed up in another, which effectually sealed 
the good man’s tongue. He determined to make her his 
wife, and then the letters, the whole story, in which he 
had read her heart as clear as a book, and was afraid of 
nothing, concerned himself alone. He felt at liberty to 
tell her how or when he chose. At least so he persuaded 
himself. 

“ But perhaps I, too, was a little bit of a coward, my 
child. I, too, might have avoided much misery if I had 


244 


Christianas Mistake. 


had the strength to speak out. Bat we all make mis¬ 
takes sometimes, as I told you once. The great thing is 
not to leave them as mistakes, not to sink under them, 
but to recognize them for what they are, and try to rem 
edy them if possible. Even if we married too hastily— 
I, because it was the only wa}^ in which I could shelter 
and protect my darling, and you—well, perhaps because 
I overpersuaded you, still, we are happy now.” 

Happy! It was a word too small—any word would 
be. The only expression for such happiness was silence. 

“And what are we to do about him?” 

“Him! who?” 

Christian said it quite naturally; for, woman-like, in 
that rapture of content, the whole world dwindled down 
into but two beings, herself and her husband. 

Dr. Grey smiled—not dissatisfied. “ I meant Sir Ed¬ 
win Uniacke. May I read his letter?” 

“ Certainly.” 

She turned her face away, blushing in bitter shame. 
But there was no need. Either “ the de’il is not so black 
as he’s painted,” or, what was more probable, that person¬ 
age himself, incarnate in man’s evil nature, shrinks from 
intruding his worst blackness upon the white purity of a 
good woman. Probably never was an illicit or disgrace¬ 
ful love-letter written to any woman for which she her¬ 
self was quite blameless. 

Dr. Grey perused very composedly Sir Edwin’s epistle 
to his wife, saying at the end of it, “Shall I read this 
aloud ? There is no reason why I should not.” 

And he read; 


Christianas Mistake. 


245 


“My dear Christian, 

“ If you have forgotten me, I have not forgotten you. 
A man does not generally meet with a girl like you twice 
in his lifetime. If, pressed by circumstances, I let you 
slip through my fingers, it was the worse for me, and, 
perhaps, the better for you. I bear no grudge against 
that worthy don and most respectable old fogie, your 
husband.” 

Christian recoiled with indignation, but Dr. Grey 
laughed—actually laughed in the content of his heart, 
and, putting his arm round his wife’s waist, made her 
read the remainder of the letter with him. 

“ I have followed you pretty closely for some weeks. 
I can not tell why, except that I was once madly in love 
with you, and perhaps I am still—I hardly know. But 
I am a gentleman, and not a fool either. And when a 
man sees a woman cares no more for him than she does 
for the dust under her feet, why, if he keeps on caring for 
her, he is a fool. 

“ The purport of this letter is, therefore, nothing to 
which you can have the slightest objection, it being mere¬ 
ly a warning. There is a young woman in Avonsbridge, 
Susan Bennett by name, who, from an unfortunate slip 
of the tongue of mine, hates you, as all women do hate 
one another (except one woman, whom I once had the 
honor of meeting every day for four weeks, which fact 
may have made me a less bad fellow than I used to be, 
God knows—if there is a God, and if He does know any 
thing). Well, what I had to say is. Beware of Susan 
Bennett, and beware of another person, who thinks her¬ 
self much superior to Bennett, and yet they are as like as 


246 


Christianas Mistake. 


two peas—Miss Gascoigne. Defend yourself; you may 
need it. And as the best way to defend you, I mean im¬ 
mediately to leave Avonsbridge—perhaps for personal 
reasons also, discretion being the better part of valor, and 
you being so confoundedly like an angel still. Good-by. 

“Yours truly, Edwin Uniacke.” 

A strange “ love-letter” certainly, yet not an ill one, 
and one which it was better to have received than not. 
Better than any uncomfortable mystery to have had this 
clearing up of the doings and intentions of that strange, 
brilliant, erratic spirit which had flashed across the quiet 
atmosphere of Saint Bede’s, and then vanished away in 
darkness—darkness not hopelessly dark. No one could 
believe so—at least no good Christian soul could, after 
reading that letter. 

The husband and wife sat silent for a little, and then 
Dr. Grey said, “I always thought he was not altogether 
bad — there was some good in him. And he may be 
the better, poor fellow, all his life for having once had a 
month’s acquaintance with Christian Oakley.” 

Christian pressed her husband’s hand gratefully. That 
little word or two carried in it a world of healing. But 
she was not able to say much ; her heart was too full. 

“And now what is to be done?” said Dr. Grey, rnedi 
tatively. “ He must have had some motive in writing 
this letter—a not unkindly motive either. He must be 
aware of some strong reason for it when he tells you to 
‘defend yourself.’ He forgets,” added Christian’s hus^ 
band, tenderly, “ that now there is somebody else to do 
it for you.” 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


247 


Christian burst into tears. All her forlorn, unprotect¬ 
ed youth, the more forlorn that in her father’s lifetime it 
was under a certain hollow sham of protection ; the total 
desolation afterward, exposed to every insult of the bitter 
world, or at least that bitter portion of it which is always 
ready to trample down a woman if she is helpless, and to 
hunt her down if she is strong enough to help herself— 
all this was gone by forever. She was afraid of nothing 
any more. She did not need to defend herself again. 
She had been taken out of all her misery, and placed in 
the safe shelter of a good man’s love. What had she 
done to deserve such blessedness? What could she do 
to show her recognition of the same? She could only 
weep, poor child! and feel like a child, whom the Great 
Father has ceased to punish—forgiven, and taken back 
to peace. 

“ I think,” she said, looking up from her hiding-place, 
“I am so happy, I should almost like to die.” 

“ No, no. Not just yet, my foolish little woman,” said 
Dr. Grey. “We have, I trust, a long lifetime before us. 
Mine seems only just beginning.” 

Strange, but true. He was fortj^-five and she twenty- 
one, and yet to both this was the real springtime of their 
lives. 

After a pause, during which he sat thinking rather 
deeply, the master rose and rang the bell. 

“Barker, do you know whether Sir Edwin Uniacke 
is still in Avonsbridge?” 

Barker had seen him not an hour ago, near the senate- 
house. 

“Will you go to his lodgings?—let me see; can you 


248 


Christian''s Mistake. 


make out this address, my dear?” and Dr. Grey pointed* 
ly handed over the letter—the fatal letter, which had 
doubtless been discussed by every servant in the bouse 
—to his wife. “ Yes, that is it. Go, Barker, present my 
compliments, and say that Mrs. Grey and myself shall be 
happy to see Sir Edwin at the Lodge this morning.” 

“ Very well, master,” said Barker, opening his round 
eyes to their roundest as he disappeared from the room. 

“What shall you say to him?” asked Christian. 

“The plain truth,” answered Dr. Grey, smiling. “It 
is the only weapon, offensive or defensive, that an honest 
man need ever use.” 

But there was no likelihood of using it against Sir Ed¬ 
win, for Barker brought word that he was absent from 
his lodgings, and his return was quite indefinite. So in 
some other way must be inquired into and met this cruel 
gossip which had been set afloat, and doubtless was now 
swimming about every where on the slow current of 
Avonsbridge society. 

“ But perhaps it may be needless, after all,” said Dr. 
Grey, cheerfully. “We give ourselves a good deal of 
trouble by fancying our affairs are as important to the 
world as they are to ourselves. Whether or not, be con¬ 
tent, my darling. One and one makes two. I think we 
two can face the world.” 

Long after her husband had gone to his study, and 
Christian had returned to her routine of household du¬ 
ties, one of which was teaching Arthur and Letitia—not 
the pleasantest of tasks—the peace of his words remained 
in her heart, comforting her throughout the day. She 
ceased to trouble or perplex herself about what was to 


Christian's Mistake, 


249 


come; it seemed, indeed, as if nothing would ever trouble 
her anj more. She rested in a deep dream of tranquil¬ 
lity, so perfect that it beautified and glorified her whole 
appearance. Arthur more than once stopped in his les¬ 
sons to say, in his fondling way, in which to the clinging 
love of the child was added a little of the chivalrous ad¬ 
miration of the boy, 

“ Mother, how very pretty you do look!” • 

“ Do I ? lam so glad !” 

At which answer Letitia, who was still prim and pre¬ 
cise, though a little less so than she used to be, looked 
perfectly petrified with astonishment. And her step¬ 
mother could not possibly explain to the child why she 
was “so glad.” Glad, for the only reason which makes 
a real woman care to be lovely, because she loves and is 
beloved. 

The day wore by; the days at the Lodge went swiftly 
enough now, even under the haunting eyes of the pale 
foundress, and the grim, defunct masters, which Chris¬ 
tian used to fancy pursued her, and glared at her from 
morning till night. Now the sad queen seemed to gaze 
at her with a pensive envy, and the dark-visaged medi- 
86val doctors to look after her with a good-natured smile. 
They had alike become part and portions of her home— 
the dear home in which her life was to pass—and she 
dreaded neither them nor it any more. 

In the evening the family were all gathered together 
in their accustomed place, round Christian’s new piano in 
the drawing-room; for, since Miss Gascoigne’s depart¬ 
ure, she had carried out her own pleasure in a long-con¬ 
tested domestic feud, and persisted in using the drawing- 
L 2 


250 


Christian's Mistake. 


room every night. She did not see why its pleasant 
splendors should gratify the public and not the family; 
so she let Arthur, and Letitia, and even Oliver enjoy the 
sight of the beautiful room, and learn to behave them¬ 
selves in it accordingly; even toward her lovely piano, 
which was kept open for a full hour every evening, for a 
sort of family concert. 

She had taken much pains, at what personal cost keen 
lovers of music will understand, to teach her Little folk to 
sing. It was possible, for they had all voices, but it had 
its difficulties, especially when Oliver insisted on joiniiig 
the concert, as he did now, tossing his curls, and opening 
his rosy mouth like a great round O, but, nevertheless, 
looking so exceeding like a singing cherub that Chris¬ 
tian caught him up and kissed him with a passionate de¬ 
light. 

And then she proceeded gravely with the song, words 
and music of which she had to compose and to arrange, 
as she best could, so as to suit the capacity of her per¬ 
formers. And this was what her musical genius had 
come to—singing and making baby-songs for little chil¬ 
dren, to which the only chorus of applause was a faint 
Bravo!” and a clapping of hands from the distant fire¬ 
side. 

“ Papa, we never thought you heard us. We thought 
when you were deep in that big book you heard noth¬ 
ing.” 

“ Indeed ? Very well,” said papa, and disappeared be¬ 
low the surface again, until he revived to take out his 
watch and observe that it was nearly time for little peo¬ 
ple to be safe asleep in their little beds. 


Christianas Mistake. 


251 


Papa was always unquestioningly and instantaneous¬ 
ly obeyed, so the young trio ceased their laughing over 
their funny songs, and prepared for one—a serious one 
—which always formed the conclusion of the night’s en¬ 
tertainments 

Every body knows it; most people have been taught 
it, the first song they ever w^ere taught, from the mother’s 
lips. Christian had learned it from her mother, and it 
was the first thing she taught to these her children—the 
Evening Hymn— 

“ Glory to Thee, my God, this night.” 

She had explained its meaning to them, and made 
them sing it seriously—not carelessly. As they stood 
round the piano, Titia and Atty one at each side, and Ol¬ 
iver creeping in to lean upon his step-mother’s knee, 
there was a sweet grave look on all their faces, which 
made even the two eldest not unpretty children ; for their 
hearts were in their faces—their once frightened, frozen, 
or bad and bitter hearts. They had no need to hide any 
thing, or be afraid of any thing. They were loved. The 
sunshine of that sweet nature, which had warmed their 
father’s heart, and made it blossom out, when past life’s 
summer, with all the freshness of spring, had shined down 
upon these poor little desolate, motherless children, and 
made them good and happy—good, perhaps, because they 
were happy, and most certainly happy because they were 
good. 

For that mother—their real mother, who, living, had 
been to them—what Christian never allowed herself to 
inquire or even to speculate—she was gone now. And 


252 


Christianas 3Iistake. 


being no longer an imperfect woman, but a disembodied 
spirit—perhaps—who knows?—she might be looking 
down on them all, purified from every feeling but glad¬ 
ness; content that her children were taken care of, and 
led so tenderly into the right way. 

Clear and sweet rose up their voices in the familiar 
words, over which their step-mother’s voice, keeping them 
all steady with its soft undertone, faltered more than once, 
especially when she thought of all the “blessings” which 
had come to herself since the dawning “ light 

“Glory to Thee, my God, this night, 

For all the blessings of the light. 

Keep me, oh keep me, King of kings, 

Beneath Thine own almighty wings! 

“Teach me to live, that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed; 

Teach me to die, that so I may 
With joy behold the judgment day. 

“Oh, may my soul in Thee repose. 

And with sweet sleep my eyelids close; 

Sleep that may me more active make, 

To serve my God when I awake.” 

The strain had just ended—as if he had waited for its 
ending—when the drawing-room door opened, and there 
entered for the second time into the family circle at the 
Lodge—Sir Edwin Uniacke. 

Certainly the young man was no coward, or he nev¬ 
er would have entered there. When he did so, bold as 
he looked, with his easy “fast” air, his handsome face 
flushed, as if with just a little too long lingering over 
wine, he involuntarily drew back a step, apparently feel¬ 
ing that the atmosphere of this peaceful home was not 


Christian's MistaJce. 253 

fitted for him, or that he himself was not fitted to bo 
present there. 

“I fear I may be intruding, but I have only just re¬ 
ceived a message you sent me; I had been out all day, 
and I leave Avonsbridge early to-morrow,” he began to 
say, hesitatingly, apologetically. 

“ I am glad to see you,” said the master. “ Christian, 
will you send the children away ? or rather, Sir Edwin, 
will you come to my study ?” 

“ With pleasure,” was the answer, as with an altogeth¬ 
er perplexed air, and vainly striving to keep up his usual 
exceeding courtesy of manner, the young man bowed to 
Mrs. Grey and passed out. 

“How funny! That’s Sir Edwin Uniacke, Titia—the 
gentleman that met me, and—” 

“And that you were always talking about, till Phil¬ 
lis told us we mustn’t speak of him any more. And I 
think I know why, mother,” hanging down her head 
with rosy blushes that made the thin face almost pretty. 
“ Mother, I think I ought to tell you—I always do tell 
you every thing now—that that was the gentleman who 
met me and Miss Bennett. But I will never do any 
thing, or meet any body you don’t like again.” 

“No, dear.” 

“And, mother,” said Arthur, sidling up to her, “don’t 
you think, if you were to say something yourself about 
it. Sir Edwin would ask me again to go and see him, and 
let me row on the lake at Lake Hall?” 

“ I don’t know, my boy; but I can not speak to Sir 
Edwin. We must leave every thing to papa—papa al¬ 
ways knows best.” 


254 


Christiarts Mistake. 


And in tliat firm faith, almost as simple and unreason¬ 
ing as that of the child, and which, it sometimes seemed, 
God had specially sent this good man to teach her—her, 
who had hitherto had so little cause to trust or to rever¬ 
ence any body—Christian rested as completely and con¬ 
tentedly as Arthur himself. Happy son and happy wife, 
who could so rest upon father and husband! 

For nearly an hour Dr. Grey and Sir Edwin remained 
in the study together. What passed between them the 
former never told, even to his wife, and she did not in¬ 
quire. She was quite certain in this, as in all other mat¬ 
ters, lhat “ papa knew best.’’ 

When he did come in he found her sitting quietly sew 
ing. She looked up hastily, but saw that he was alone, 
and smiled. 

Dr. Grey smiled too—at least not exactly, but there 
was a brightness in his face such as—not to liken it pro¬ 
fanely—might have been seen in the one Divine face aft¬ 
er saying to any sinner “Go, and sin no more.” 

“ My dearest,” said Dr. Grey, sitting down beside his 
wife and taking her hand, “you may be quite content; 
all is well.” 

“I am very glad.” 

“We have talked over every thing, and come to a 
right understanding. But it is necessary to bring our 
neighbors to a right understanding also, and to stoj) peo¬ 
ple’s mouths if we can. To-morrow is Sunday. I have 
arranged with Sir Edwin that he shall meet me in chap¬ 
el, and sit with me, in face of all the world, in the mas¬ 
ter’s pew. Do you dislike this, Christian ?” 

“Ko.” 


Christian's Mistake. 


255 


“We have likewise settled that he shall start off for 
a long tour in Greece and Egypt with an old friend of 
mine, who will be none the worse for the companionship 
of such a brilliant young fellow. Besides, it will break 
off all bad associations, and give him a chance of * turn¬ 
ing over a new leaf,’ as people say. Somehow I feel per¬ 
suaded that he will.” 

“Thank God!” 

“I too say ‘thank Godfor his mother was a good 
friend to me when I was his age. He is only just one- 
and-twenty, he tells me. There may be a long success¬ 
ful life before him yet.” 

“ I hope so,” said Christian, earnestl 3 ^ “ And perhaps 
a happy one too. But it could never be half so happy as 
mine.” 

Thus did these two, secure and content, rejoice over 
the “lost piece of silver,” believing, with a pertinacity 
that some may smile at, that it was silver after all. 

“ One thing more. He will be at least three years 
away; and no one knows what may happen to him in the 
mean time, he says. He would like to shake hands with 
you before he goes. Have you any objection to this?” 

“None.” 

“Come then with me into the study.” 

They found Sir Edwin leaning against the mantel¬ 
piece, with his head resting on his arms. When he raised 
it, it was the same dashing, handsome head, which a paint¬ 
er might have painted for an angel or an evil spirit, ac¬ 
cording as the mood seized him. But now it wag the 
former face, with the mouth quivering with emotion, and 
something not unlike tears in the brilliant eyes. 


256 


Christianas Mistake, 


“ Sir Edwin, according to your desire, my wife has 
come to wish you good-by and good speed.” 

Christian held out her hand gently and gravely: 

“1 do wish it you—good speed wherever you go.” 

“ Thank y(>u, Mrs. Grey. Good-by.” 

“Good-by.” 

And so they parted — these two, whose fates had so 
strangely met and mingled for a little while — parted 
kindly, but totally, without one desire on either side that 
it should be otherwise. They never have met, probably 
never will meet again in this world. 


Christiaii's Mistake, 


257 


CHAPTER XV. 

CONCLUSION. 

And what became of every body—the every body of 
this simple record of six months’ household history, such 
as might have happened in any life? For it includes no 
extraordinary events, and is the history of mere ordinary 
people, neither better nor worse than their neighbors, 
making mistakes, suffering for them, retrieving them, and 
then struggling on, perhaps to err again. Is not this the 
chronicle of all existence? For we are none of us either 
bad or good, all perfect or wholly depraved, and our mer¬ 
its go as often unrewarded as our sins. 

Whether the future career of Sir Edwin Uniacke be 
fair or foul, time alone can prove. At present the chances 
seem in favor of the former, especially as he has done the 
best thing a man of fortune, or any man who earns an 
honest livelihood, can do—he has married early, and, re¬ 
port says, married well. She is an earl’s daughter, not 
beautiful, and rather poor, but gentle, simple-minded, and 
good, as many a nobleman’s daughter is, more so than 
girls of lesser degree and greater presumption. 

Except sending marriage-cards. Sir Edwin has attempt¬ 
ed no communication with Dr. and Mrs. Grey. Nor do 
they wish it. The difference between themselves and 


258 


Christian’s Mistake, 


him, in wealth, rank, habits, tastes, would always make 
such association undesirable, even had they expected it 
renewed. But they did not. In their complete and con¬ 
tented life they had—until the marriage-cards came—al 
most forgotten the young man’s existence. 

The aunts still live at Avonside Cottage, one cultivat¬ 
ing flowers and the other society with equal assiduity. 
It is to be hoped both find an equal reward. As Aunt 
Henrietta grows to be no longer a middle-aged, but an 
elderly lady, less active, less clever, and more dependent 
upon other people’s kindness, and especially upon that 
of the Lodge—which never fails her—she sometimes is 
thought to be growing a little gentler in her manner and 
ways, a little less suspicious, less ill-natured, less ready to 
see always the black and hard side of things instead of 
the sunny and sweet. 

At any rate, there is never now the shadow of dispute 
between herself and her brother-in-law’s family ; and she 
always talks a great deal about “dear Mrs. Grey,” her 
elegant looks and manners (which are certainly patent to 
all), what a very good wife she has settled down into, 
and how much attached she is to the master. Even dark¬ 
ly hinting—in moments confidential—that “ to my cer¬ 
tain knowledge” Mrs. Grey had, as Christian Oakley, the 
opportunity of making an excellent marriage with a gen¬ 
tleman of family and position, who was devotedly in love 
with her, but whom she refused for the love of Dr. Ar¬ 
nold Grey. 

Which statement, when she came to hear it—which 
of course she did : every body hears every thing in Av- 
onsbridge—only made Christian smile, half amused, half 


ChristiarCs Mistake. 


259 


sad, to think how strangely truth can be tv/isted some¬ 
times, even by well-meaning people, who are perfectly 
convinced in their own minds and consciences that they 
never tell a lie, and wouldn’t do such a thing for the 
world. 

Nevertheless, Mrs. Grey sighed, and wondered if there 
was any absolute truth and absolute goodness to be found 
any where except in her own husband—her well-beloved 
and honored husband. 

He is “turnin’ auld” now, like John Anderson in the 
song, and the great difference in age between himself and 
his wife is beginning to tell every year more plainly, so 
that she thinks sometimes, with a sharp pain and dread, 
of her own still remaining youth, fearing lest it may not 
be the will of God that they two should “ totter down” 
the hill of life together. But she knows that all things— 
death and life included—are in His safe hands, and that 
sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. 

It has pleased Him to drop one other bitter drop into 
what would otherwise have been the entire sweetness of 
Christian’s overflowing cup. She has no children—that 
is, no children of her very own. Year by year, that hope 
of motherhood, in all its exquisite bliss, slipped away. 
At last it had quite to be let go, and its substitute ac¬ 
cepted—as we most of us have, more or less, to accept 
the will of Heaven instead of our will, and go on our way 
resignedly, nay, cheerfully, knowing that, whether we see 
it or not, all is well. 

Christian Grey had to learn this lesson, and she did 
learn it, not at first, but gradually. She smothered up all 
tegrcts in her silent heart, and took to her bosom those 


260 


Christian's Mistake. 


children which Providence had sent her. She devoted 
herself entirely to them, brought them up wisely and 
well, and in their love and their father’s she was wholly 
satisfied. 


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